


Twelve Days

by Jaybee65, msgenevieve



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Christmas, F/M, HR, TR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-25
Updated: 2002-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybee65/pseuds/Jaybee65, https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 12 days leading up to Christmas, Section-One-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in late S3. However, contains spoilers through the end of S4.

### Twelve Days

Nikita glared at the calendar on the kitchen wall. No matter how much she scowled, sadly, the date remained December 13 - twelve days until Christmas.

_Great. Just great._ She'd just returned from a four-day stint in Dubrovnik, and was due to leave for Hanoi in the morning. It was a cold op – mainly surveillance – and god only knew how long she'd be stuck there. _Tra la la la fa bloody la la_, she thought sourly.

Dropping her keys onto the kitchen bench, she looked down and sighed. _No wonder I'm not in a festive mood. It's hard to feel like decking the halls when there's gunpowder under your fingernails and someone else's blood on your jacket._

Kicking off her boots, she headed upstairs, stripping off her dusty mission blacks as she went, leaving a scattered trail of clothing behind her. She didn't particularly care about being house-proud tonight. To be honest, she didn't care about anything much, not with Michael stationed in Prague for another two days.

A hot shower helped revive her wilting spirits somewhat, but a stiff vodka rocks was even more help. Dressed in makeshift pyjamas - tatty sweatpants and an old sweater, an outfit that screamed 'I am definitely not expecting my lover tonight' - she wandered across to the stereo. With background music provided by one of Michael's forgotten classical CDs, she headed for the couch armed with a notepad and pen.

Five minutes later, she was still staring at a white, blank page. She chewed the end of the pen, suddenly feeling a little empty.

"Why do I do this to myself every year?" she exclaimed to the empty room, tossing the pen and notepad onto the coffee table. "Another Christmas, another New Year, another goddamn year," she mumbled, bitterness tightening her throat. As if making a Christmas list and thinking about cooking and buying a tree would change anything. As if on December 26th she wouldn't still be stuck in the hellhole otherwise known as Section One.

_My fifth posthumous Christmas...my, how time flies when you're having fun._

Tossing back the dregs of her drink, she debated the pros and cons of a second. It didn't take much vodka to give her a hangover, and she _did_ have a six a.m. briefing. She pictured Operations' reaction if she was to be anything less than bright eyed and bushy tailed at the briefing, then grinned. "What the hell," she said under her breath. "It's a long flight to Hanoi. I can sleep on the plane." Rising from the couch, she sauntered into the kitchen and poured herself a double.

Sipping her drink, she walked back to the couch, back to the wretched 'to do' list. Taking another sip, she frowned at the blank notepad. _Should I even bother? I probably won't even be here._ And if she _were_ home on Christmas Day, all she really wanted was to spend the day with Michael. She didn't care about presents or Christmas trees.

Polishing off her drink, she stretched out on the couch, hugging one of the large sofa cushions. The vodka – lovely but deadly stuff she'd brought back from Poland last year – was already making its presence felt. She was pleasantly weary and warm all over. After four days of sleeping on a camp bed, the couch was heavenly.

_Don't fall asleep on the couch_, nagged the little voice of common sense in her head, but her body had no intention of moving. She was so tired. She would just close her eyes for a minute, then go up to bed.

~*~*~*~

It took a while for the soft bleating of the phone to sink into her sleep-addled brain. Nikita forced open gritty eyes, momentarily confused by the fact she was lying on the couch, every light in the apartment blazing.

Her phone was on the coffee table. Without sitting up, she flung out one hand to grab it, almost knocking it off the table in the process. Finally, she managed to answer the damn thing. "Yep?"

"Josephine."

Nikita blinked at the sound of Madeline's voice. Why on earth was Madeline calling her in the middle of the night? "Yes?" It was hard to sound cheery through a cotton wool mouth, but she gave it her best shot.

"I believe you're late for your briefing."

Nikita sat bolt upright, a very unwise move. Her head swimming, she peered at her watch. It was 6:15 a.m. Muttering a very bad word under her breath, she sprang up from the couch. "I'm sorry, I wasn't feeling well last night," she invented quickly, shoving her feet into her boots, still half-asleep. "I took quite a bit of cold medication." Well, vodka _could_ be medicinal, she mused, fighting the hysterical urge to laugh in Madeline's ear.

"Perhaps you'd care to join us as soon as possible?" Madeline sounded as though she'd heard every excuse there was, and Nikita's was decidedly lacking. "As you're the lead operative on this mission, Operations has been forced to push back the briefing until your arrival."

_Shit, shit, shit._ "I'll be there in twenty." She stared at the trail of black clothing on the living room floor. _Where the hell is my jacket?_

"I'd make it fifteen, if I were you," Madeline suggested casually. "Operations was rather displeased."

At the sound of the dial tone, Nikita flipped the phone shut and looked down. She was wearing her pyjamas, no socks, and her boots. Nice look if she was going undercover as a baglady, not so good for discreet surveillance.

Giving herself a mental shake, she set about breaking the all time record for dressing and getting out her front door. As she turned to pull the door shut she caught sight of the blank notepad still sitting on the coffee table and felt an odd sense of relief. Christmas planning could wait until another night. The way she was feeling at the moment, she'd rather face a displeased Operations than spend the night pretending she had a normal life.

  


### Eleven Days

When a loud clomping echoed across Section's main floor, Birkoff looked up from his work in surprise. At 6:30 in the morning, no one ought to have that kind of energy, at least not without the assistance of copious amounts of caffeine. He glanced curiously around the room, cringing inwardly as he spotted the source of the noise: Nikita, taking long, swift strides in her mission-black boots, blonde hair bouncing to and fro as she walked. Her brisk movement would have seemed confident but for the expression of nervous anticipation that twisted her features, and the flushed redness in her face that bespoke of having literally run to Section.

Oh, God, poor Nikita.

He knew where she was going -- and he knew exactly why she looked like she was hurrying toward her own beheading. Operations' hoarse shouts to Madeline earlier that morning had made the situation horribly obvious to everyone within earshot. Since then, the man had been pacing steadily back and forth beside the briefing table, anger billowing out from him like waves of hot air from a blast furnace. As he glowered, the row of operatives seated attentively before him slowly wilted, their posture weakening more and more with each passing minute.

As Nikita's path neared Comm, Birkoff gazed at her sympathetically. Normally, she would have given him at least a wink or a smile as she passed; this time, she didn't even glance in his direction.

Yikes. Just the thought of the scathing dressing-down she was about to get made him want to hide. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to know about it, didn't want to think about it. So he frowned, concentrated on his monitor, and put the rest of the room out of his mind. Nikita could handle herself, anyway. And he had a systems scan to run that couldn't wait any longer.

He licked his dry lips and began typing, focusing his attention on the text appearing on the screen. In the background, he could hear Operations' voice: a low growl, punctuated with occasional sharpness. More faintly, he heard Nikita reply, her tone conciliatory, but her words inaudible. Eventually, even the voices faded away, lost in the general din of morning activity as more and more operatives arrived to start their workday.

He began to relax, breathing more easily. No one was getting throttled over there, after all. Nikita had been stupid, and she got yelled at. That was it. No big deal. He made a face, leaning closer to the screen. Now, why wasn't the scan cycling? Oh, no, Simon hadn't installed anything during the night shift, had he?

Ugh. Now he had to pull up the systems log and see what was going on.

Lost in concentration, he jumped when he felt someone tap his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Kristy, one of the newest techs, standing over him expectantly. She was young, but that almost went without saying in their line of work. She was also plump and rather sweet-looking, but attempted to make up for her round-faced pudginess with short, punk-like hair that she had dyed an unnatural shade of purplish-black, a small diamond stud in her nose, and far-too-heavy makeup. It didn't work: she still looked like a mall-rat version of a rebel, someone's suburban little sister.

"I've got the QA done," she said, cracking her gum loudly as she held out a disk.

"Oh, yeah, thanks."

He took the disk absentmindedly and found himself staring at her, not quite sure why. She appeared oddly out of place, although he couldn't identify what it was, exactly. Then it struck him. She wasn't wearing the usual subdued clothing that Section operatives seemed to adopt as their de facto uniform. Instead, she wore a bright green knit sweater adorned with a large, wood-block style pin in the shape of a cheery Santa. She looked ludicrous, like a cartoon character burst to Technicolor life in the middle of a black and white film.

She must have noticed his staring, because she giggled and said, "You like the pin, huh?"

He blinked, embarrassed. "Uh, it's nice, I guess. Cute."

She smiled. "You want it?"

"What?"

"Oh, don't worry, Birkoff. I've got others I can wear." She unfastened the pin, then bent down and attached it to the front of his gray sweatshirt. "There. Now you look festive," she pronounced, smirking.

He looked down at the pin, discomfited. If a jolly, red-cheeked Santa seemed silly on her, it looked positively idiotic on him. What if he had to go up to the Perch? Or worse yet, Madeline's office. He could just see the new entry in his psych file: _Mr. Birkoff has developed a new attachment to kitsch jewelry. This could be a sign of gender confusion. Closer monitoring may be warranted._

"Um, I don't really need this," he mumbled. "You should keep it."

"What, you don't celebrate Christmas?" she asked teasingly, cocking her head and placing her hands on her hips. "You Grinch, you! I'm gonna tell Santa to leave you a lump of coal in your stocking."

He wrinkled his forehead, unsure what to say. Before he could think of anything, her expression suddenly transformed, her face flushing bright crimson.

"Oh, God, you're Jewish, aren't you?" she asked, her tone mortified. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Boy, I should just keep my big mouth shut."

He opened his mouth to answer, but then realized he couldn't. Was he Jewish? Christian? Anything?

_I don't know._

Did he have a family? Had he ever celebrated holidays? Did he have any traditions or history? Or had he just hatched in a Section incubator, like some sort of freak?

_I don't know._

He reached down and unhooked the pin, and then handed it back to her. "Here. It looks better with your sweater anyway."

She took it and nodded, her face still bright red. "Thanks," she said, smiling awkwardly and backing away as if she wanted to disappear. "Let me know if you want any more testing done, okay?"

"Sure," he muttered, and turned back to his monitor.

He looked at the screen blankly for several moments. Finally, he sighed and forced himself to start typing, ignoring the phrase that still rang faintly in his mind.

_I don't know._


	2. Chapter 2

### Ten Days

Michael stared at their Prague contact, fighting the urge to put his gloved hands around the man's thick neck and squeeze. "You have nothing new." It was a statement, not a question, and Michael saw a flicker of fear in the man's pale blue eyes.

"Well, information can be scarce this time of year," he began nervously, "so many people traveling to visit their families." His voice trailed off as his gaze met Michael's, his throat working as he swallowed compulsively. "I should have something tomorrow."

"I hope so," Michael replied blandly as he pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. Their position behind the ornately carved gates of a cemetery in the Jewish quarter sheltered them somewhat from the biting wind, but it was still bitterly cold. "It would be a pity if the Section was forced to find a new source."

The informant's face paled. "I'm meeting Kasevich later tonight. He will have the information you requested."

"Good," Michael said quietly, automatically scanning the immediate area. He returned his attention to the other man. "Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. The Old Town Square."

It was a command the informant seemed only too happy to obey. He nodded wordlessly, and disappeared swiftly into the night. Michael waited a few moments, then walked in the opposite direction. Snow crunched loudly under his boots; he could see his breath on the air. He walked quickly, more from the desire to stay warm than an eagerness to return to his Section-designated accommodation. He was staying in a particularly spartan hotel cum boarding house a few minutes walk from the main business district. However, comfort and location were of no concern to Section – more important was the fact that the owner was an elderly widow who showed an almost militant discretion when it came to her guests. If ever pressed by an outside source, she remembered no names, no faces. All bills were settled in cash. No records were kept.

Michael had been in Prague for three days. Three days spent waiting for information vital to the demise of a local arms dealer. Three days of seeing families, wrapped up in their winter coats, walking along the snowy streets, excited children pulling at their parents' hands. Three days spent thinking of his own son, of the family that was now lost to him.

Since Salla Vachek's death, Section had provided Michael with infrequent reports that detailed Elena and Adam's wellbeing. Those brief, unemotional recitals of facts and figures had only served to heighten his sense of loss. Finally, last month, he had informed Madeline he no longer wished to be updated on the status of his former family. She'd regarded him calmly, her expression sympathetic yet skeptical.

_"I hope this means you've finally accepted the parameters of your deep cover mission, Michael."_

_"Of course." He forced the simple words out through tight lips._

_Madeline lifted one dark eyebrow. "Because I'd hate to find that you'd done something as foolish as attempting to keep watch over Elena and Adam yourself." _

_He didn't speak but merely returned her gaze steadily until a knowing smile tugged at the corner of her well-shaped mouth. "Thank you, Michael, that will be all."_

Now, walking alone through the snow-encrusted streets, Michael felt a piercing loneliness so acute it was an almost physical ache. He forced himself to keep walking. Adam and Elena were gone, but for now, they were safe. They were alive.

He had reached a busy retail district and the streets were no longer empty. His senses kicked into high alert when a willowy form detached itself from the passing crowd and sauntered toward him. On closer inspection, it was a tall, Nordic blonde, her arms loaded with shopping bags. She was wearing pale gray furs and an expression of blatant feminine curiosity. Michael let his eyes meet hers for the briefest moment, subconsciously comparing her features to those of another willowy blonde. _The hair is the right colour but her mouth is too thin_, he thought automatically. _Chin too weak. _

The woman smiled at him flirtatiously, her hazel eyes regarding him with obvious interest. Michael merely kept walking, his stride increasing. The sight of the woman's bright blonde hair, spilling over the soft collar of her coat, had filled him with an urgent need to contact Nikita. It had been a week since he'd seen her - she'd been in Dubrovnik when he'd left for Prague, and their contact since then had been sporadic at best.

Their newly resurrected personal relationship was still fragile, still fraught with so many emotional land mines. Nikita avoided the subject of Adam and Elena like the plague, as though she was afraid of hurting him. And while she couldn't bring herself to speak of the past, Michael was reluctant to speak aloud of the future, as if by remaining silent they could avoid the attention of the gods.

He loved her. He loved her more than he'd ever loved any woman. He loved her even when he felt like shaking her for endangering her life for the sake of her damn rose-coloured principles. She'd twice restarted a heart and soul that had become catatonic with pain and sorrow, despite his best efforts to resist her. She'd been his last, desperate anchor in the blur of days that followed the end of his deep cover mission.

_"You have to find a reason for living." Her hand gripped his arm tightly, her blue eyes brimming with tears._

_He could hardly bring himself to look at her. "Where?" he asked carelessly, wanting her to tell him the answer they both already knew. Even as he sought to push her away, he longed to pull her close, to lose himself in her soft warmth. Help me. Please help me._

_Disappointment flickered briefly in her eyes, but she lifted her chin in a silent challenge. "Anywhere you can." _

And he had. He had found his reason in her.

But the joy they found in each other was always tempered with the grim knowledge that Section One was a cruel taskmaster. It neither rewarded nor cajoled but merely demanded and punished. Michael knew there would be a price to pay for their defiance of the recently issued Type One Directive - he only prayed he alone would be forced to pay it.

As lost as he was in his thoughts, he was still acutely aware of his surroundings. As he passed a small sandstone church, a stream of hardy fur-wrapped parishioners passed, obviously making their way to the evening service. Drawn by an impulse he couldn't name, Michael turned and slowly retraced his steps until he was standing outside the church. A large nativity scene, festooned with twinkling fairy lights had been strategically placed outside the front door, and several children were clustered around the display, giggling and pointing excitedly at the wooden figures.

Michael lifted his head to read the church's name, which was proudly proclaimed in ornate script. It was the church of the Sacred Heart, a Catholic church. The religion in which he'd been raised, the religion in which he'd found no answers when his parents had died. A religion he'd forced himself to forget after he'd been reborn into Section One and its doctrine of easy death.

His first impulse was to leave, but instead he found himself walking toward the front door of the church. The fragrance of incense and candles teased his nose as he hesitantly stepped inside, bringing back a rush of memories he'd thought long forgotten. As though on automatic pilot, he pulled off his gloves. Dipping the fingers of his right hand into the tiny silver bowl of holy water affixed to the wall, he made the sign of the cross, something tightening inside him at the familiar yet alien gesture.

The mass was yet to begin. Perhaps the parishioners had arrived early in order to avoid the snow Michael could still smell in the air. He stood at the back of the church, his gaze roaming the room. Families mingled with groups of teenagers, smartly dressed couples jostled for elbowroom beside elderly, dark-robed nuns. His throat tightened at the sight of a small, dark-haired, olive-skinned boy sitting at the end of a nearby pew. Secure in the circling embrace of his mother's arm, the little boy was kneeling on the seat, facing backwards, studying the congregation with a child's unabashed curiosity. When his dark eyes met Michael's, he smiled hesitantly. Ignoring the sudden lump in his throat, Michael smiled back. The boy immediately wriggled back down into his seat to peer at Michael through the crook of his mother's arm.

Michael blinked and looked away. _Don't think about him. He's safe now. It's better this way._ In an attempt to deny the thought of his son, he resumed his scrutiny of the church. In a small alcove to his right, a well-worn statue of Mary of the Immaculate Heart stood guard over rows and rows of small flickering candles, watching with sightless eyes over the tiny flames that were someone's pain, someone's loss. Someone's hope.

Michael stared at the candles, his vision blurring as his grief mingled with longing; despair battling with the instinctive drive to live, to survive. He had thought there was no place in his life for hope. Perhaps he was wrong.

He walked slowly toward the alcove just as a well-padded female parishioner rose from her kneeling position in front of the candles. Catching his eye, she smiled shyly, murmuring a quiet "Good evening, Sir," in her native tongue. Michael responded in kind, vaguely grateful for her words of welcome.

There was a small box of unused white candles and a wooden donation box. Michael took a moment to find several gold coins, then turned his attention to the candles. One by one, Michael said a prayer for both the living and the dead. His mother. His father. His sister. Simone. Elena. Adam.

The flames flickered as he set the small candles in the tiny sconces, their feeble heat still managing to sear his heart. He didn't kneel, as the other parishioners had done, but merely bowed his head, his eyes tightly closed. The faces of the dead were as vivid in his memory as those of the living, their voices still fresh in his ears. He wasn't expecting to find peace or atonement. To his surprise, however, a burgeoning feeling of optimism stole over him. The past was done. The future was yet to be written. Nothing was impossible.

Michael looked down at the last candle - still unlit - in his hand, and his fingers tightened around the cold wax. He didn't want to consign Nikita to the realm of the unattainable, someone to be mourned and regretted. Slipping the candle into the pocket of his overcoat, he quietly backed away from the alcove, blessing himself once more with holy water as he left the church.

Outside, the snow had started to fall. Michael pulled the woolen scarf a little tighter around his throat and increased his stride. Tonight was Nikita's second night in Hanoi. She would have both her cell phone and her PDA with her, no matter where she was. He longed to hear her voice, even if was just to hear her complain about how much she hated doing 'freaking surveillance'. With a heart considerably lightened by his unexpected detour, Michael strode quickly in the direction of the hotel.

Nothing was impossible.

  


### Nine Days

Announcing its arrival with a soft ding, the elevator slowed to a gentle halt and its doors slid open. Madeline stepped out into a brightly lit foyer, brushing tiny flakes of snow off her wool coat as the elevator doors rumbled closed again, then carefully unwound the scarf wrapped around her neck.

But for a single doorway at the far end, the foyer was completely empty, its walls and floor a nondescript beige. The door was equally unremarkable: painted a dark, dull gray, it bore no distinguishing features aside from an embedded glass oval that resembled a slightly oversized peephole.

She began to cross the foyer, zigzagging along a precise path to avoid tripping a laser-activated alarm. When she reached the door she paused, leaned in toward the glass, and stood motionless while a glowing red beam flickered across her eye. She spoke her name loudly enough for a voiceprint to register, and waited until she heard three short beeps. Grasping the doorknob, she pushed the door open, stepped inside an entryway, and allowed the door to fall soundlessly shut behind her.

Home. Perhaps not so sweet, but home nonetheless.

She removed her coat and scarf and hung them neatly inside a small closet. She then made her way down a hall toward the living room, her shoes sinking into the plush carpet as she walked, the only sound the swish of her skirt.

When she rounded the corner, the living room was dark and silent, its furnishings amorphous shadows outlined by the faint glitter of the cityscape through the windows. Paler than moonlight, the city lights cast the room with a ghostly hue, ethereal but brittle, like a thin coating of frost.

She touched a pad on the wall to turn on the lights, and the shadows took shape and substance, emerging from the blackness as tables, chairs, sofas, shelves. Tapping the wall pad again, she dimmed the illumination to a soft, warm glow; another touch, and recessed spotlights revealed a series of paintings and sculptures. As she adjusted the brightness of the spotlights, the room filled with color, dimension, and depth. But it remained hushed and still, utterly devoid of movement.

Strolling toward the center of the room, she examined her environs, feeling uncomfortably like a tourist locked inside a museum after hours. She hadn't set foot in her own home for nearly two weeks. Not that it looked neglected: daily visits by Section staff ensured it remained spotless and well tended. If she ran a finger along the uppermost shelf, there wouldn't be a trace of dust; if she inspected the linens, she would find them soft and fresh; if she lifted the leaves of the plants, the soil would be moist.

Designed according to her very exacting specifications, the apartment was everything she could want in a residence: tastefully and extravagantly decorated, comfortable to the point of sumptuousness, equipped with every imaginable convenience. Yet, despite all of that, despite its near-perfection, she found herself there less and less often.

In fact, almost never.

After her abduction the prior year, she had developed a reluctance to spend time away from Section premises -- a reluctance that lingered, resisting all efforts to shake it off. She knew, logically, that such an incident was unlikely to recur: in fact, every conceivable step had been taken to ensure it could not. The first was the assignment of a new residence -- or rather, a series of them, as the location changed every few months to evade detection. The other was enhanced security: unobtrusive to the point of invisibility, but extreme even by Section standards. If she as much as sneezed without advance notice, ten bodyguards would come running from every direction, guns drawn.

Still, despite the luxury and the nearly impenetrable defenses, she never quite felt comfortable in her new domiciles. Wandering like a pampered nomad, she drifted from one opulent dwelling to the next, never left wanting for anything, but never settling in. Indeed, if she were going to live under armed guard, she might as well stay inside Section, which made no pretense of being anything other than a fortified bunker. As she grew older, she had begun to appreciate a certain virtue in the Spartan plainness of her Section quarters -- which was why she generally chose to remain there.

Nevertheless, she forced herself to return home -- if one could refer to her residence-of-the-moment by such a term -- every so often. It was healthy to leave Section periodically, even if only to witness the passing seasons and remind oneself that the outside world existed.

The outside world, however, looked particularly uninviting at the moment. She stared at the window, where crystals of ice were beginning to form in the corners, and mentally shivered. December. A time of lengthening nights and growing cold, of hibernation, scarcity, and desolation -- yet also, paradoxically, a time of merriment and celebration. The juxtaposition of gloom and cheer was no mere coincidence: no matter what mythology was attached to them, the midwinter holidays had originated as humanity's way of pleading with the sun to return. A futile act, despite its charming optimism, illustrative of man's miscomprehension of his place in the universe.

The holidays had their value, of course; they were an important coping mechanism, and even she wasn't wholly immune to the attraction of their rituals. The cluster of brightly colored poinsettias blooming on the coffee table was a telling reminder of that. She retained a sentimental attachment to the red-leafed plants even after she had learned their less-than-savory history: once prized by the Aztecs, they symbolized the blood sacrifices offered to the sun god. Not exactly befitting the Christmas spirit of comradeship and charity, to say the least. Then again, for someone whose job it was to send people out to battle, they had a certain, almost appealing, suitability.

But enough self-indulgent reflection. She glanced at her watch. Nine o'clock. Enough time for a light dinner, a brief review of substation reports, a bath, and then sleep.

She exited the living room, passing through the dining area to enter the kitchen. Compact and clean, it was crowded with gleaming appliances that, for the most part, she had never actually used. She continued to ignore them now, walking past the counters toward the far corner, where a large, stainless steel refrigerator loomed. Restaurant-sized, it dwarfed the rest of the room.

She pulled open the refrigerator door and peered inside. Its ample shelves were fully stocked, the contents freshened daily. A platter of freshly cut fruit. Five types of cheese. Two containers of soup. A selection of hot and cold appetizers. Four different pre-cooked dinner selections, and ingredients for several others on the unlikely chance that she would have the time -- or be in the mood -- to cook her own. Whatever she didn't use would be discarded and replaced the next day. And again the next, even if it took her another two weeks to return. It was absurdly wasteful, she knew, but a welcome convenience. It left her some choice: the ability to decide on the spur of the moment whether she would go home any given night. If she were honest with herself, she had little else left to be spontaneous about.

Spotting a silver beverage container with a shiny red bow attached to its side, she pulled it out to inspect it more closely. When she opened the lid and breathed in a heady whiff of rum and nutmeg, she allowed a faint smile to lift the corners of her mouth. Homemade eggnog, courtesy of Christopher -- his gift to her every December. Unfortunately, she despised eggnog, although it would be discourteous to tell him so. Therefore, each year she did the same thing, enacting a private ritual of gratitude for his well-intentioned -- but misplaced -- gesture.

Knowing that the staff would mention it to him if she left the eggnog untouched, she withdrew a glass from a cabinet and poured a generous serving. She lifted the glass into the air in a mock toast.

"Merry Christmas, Christopher," she said quietly, staring into space for a few seconds afterwards.

She then poured the creamy liquid down the drain and carefully rinsed out the sink, leaving the unwashed glass conspicuously on the counter for the staff to discover the next morning.

Another season observed. Until next year.


	3. Chapter 3

### Eight Days 

Pausing in the middle of Munitions Walter discreetly checked the immediate area, then checked his watch. 1:05 p.m. The sun was definitely over the yardarm – time to test the results of his latest experiment. He slipped behind the large storage shelf out the back, the one that housed various pieces of equipment either waiting for repair or modification. For the last twelve months, the shelves had also housed a certain little something that was definitely not standard Section issue.

Crouching down in a seldom-used corner, Walter pushed aside the empty metal boxes he'd put in place almost a year ago, revealing a slightly battered wooden crate. His mouth almost watering in anticipation, he pulled the crate toward him, and reverently opened the lid. A dozen bottles, their contents darkly gleaming, lay on an elderly but clean blanket that had been folded several times over. Walter grinned at the sight of all his babies still completely intact. "Splendido," he breathed.

He'd brewed his first batch on a whim ten years ago, and had been experimenting with the formula ever since. He had high hopes for this vintage. Walter ran a hand over one of the bottles, the glass smooth and cool beneath his fingertips. _Time for a taste test_, he thought happily.

"Walter, are you in here?"

The intrusion of Davenport's voice had Walter swearing under his breath and hastily closing the lid of the wooden crate. "With you in a minute," he called out loudly. Casting a longing look at his secret stash, he hurried out to the main work area. "What can I do for you?"

As usual, Davenport was dressed as though he was going on a camping trip – duffel coat, hiking boots and woollen beanie. He regarded Walter with solemn brown eyes, as he placed a weapon onto the workbench. "I need you to take a look at this for me."

"What's the problem?" Walter asked as he reached for the gun, all thoughts of shiny bottles temporarily forgotten.

"The sight's still way off."

Walter grinned reassuringly. "Leave it with me. I'll have her up and running in no time." Davenport gave him a quick nod and left without another word. _What was it with Level Five Ops and the strong silent act_, Walter mused with vague amusement. _Do they all read the same manual? _

As he turned, intending to pick up where he left off, he caught sight of a familiar figure loping despondently through Comm. For the second time in as many minutes, Walter pushed aside the planned taste-test, anticipating instead a visit from his favourite girl. He'd seen her moping about over an hour ago. Not that he was one to brag, but with Michael out of the country, he was usually the next batter up when it came to a shoulder to cry on. By his calculations, she should be walking into his work area right about....

"Hi, Walter," Nikita said brightly as she wandered into Munitions. For a moment, the cheeriness of her greeting had him fooled, then he saw the sadness in her eyes.   
She was still wearing her mission blacks, which was unlike her. She normally liked to get back into her own skin – as she'd once put it – as soon as she could, and the team had returned from Hanoi over two hours ago.

"Hiya, Sugar," he replied casually, discreetly scanning the immediate area. "You're back early."

Lounging against his main workbench, Nikita shrugged. "There was a problem with the target."

Walter eyed her for a moment, studying the tight set of her mouth. "What happened?"

"He died," she replied flatly. "The idiot got himself tanked up on Christmas cheer a little early and walked in front of a bus."

Walter pursed his lips. Given the distant look in Nikita's eyes, it probably wasn't the best time to make a wisecrack. "Well, at least you got to come home ahead of schedule."

Nikita drummed her fingers on the barrel of the gun Davenport had left on the workbench. "Home sweet home," she muttered under her breath. "Home for the holidays," she went on in a softly mocking singsong voice, twirling the gun in circles.

"Uh, Sugar?" Walter walked over to her side, and gently removed the weapon from harm's way. "Wanna tell me about that bee you've got in your bonnet?"

She bit her bottom lip, staring down at her hands where they rested on the top of the workbench. "You know, I never paid much attention to Christmas before I came to Section," she said quietly. "Didn't really care about it one way or the other." When her gaze flicked up to meet his, the misery in her bright blue eyes made his heart ache. "But now that I'm in here..." She shrugged, looking back down at her hands. "I guess I wish I hadn't wasted all those Christmases in the real world."

Walter reached out and tapped her nose with his finger. "Your life is as real as you make it, Sugar."

"Oh, god." Lifting her eyes to his, she managed a shaky smile. "You're not going to give me the speech about the journey and the destination again, are you?"

He grinned and put his hand over his heart. "Would I do that to you? Besides, I try not to repeat my lectures, kiddo."

She was silent for a moment, then looked at him almost shyly. "You've got the right idea, you know, celebrating the Winter Solstice instead of Christmas. No gifts, no turkey, no pressure, no silly rituals."

"Oh, there's _rituals_, Sugar," he said with a wicked smile.

Nikita's eyes widened. "We're not talking about dancing naked around Stonehenge, are we?"

Walter chuckled, pleased to see the sparkle had returned to her eyes. "Not quite, Sugar. But most Christmas traditions have pagan origins, you know. Christmas trees, holly." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Even mistletoe."

She laughed, then leaned forward to brush his cheek with a kiss. "You don't need mistletoe to get a kiss from me, Walter."

Walter felt his eyes mist over and cleared his throat hastily. _Must be getting sentimental in my old age_. He checked his watch. "You going out again?"

"No, I'm down for the rest of the day." She patted him on the forearm. "Thanks for listening to my drivel," she said with a faintly embarrassed smile. "You're a saint."

He looked over her shoulder, scanning the main floor of Section. There was hardly a soul in sight. "Wait right here," he told her, then hurried back to the wooden crate Davenport's arrival had forced him to abandon.

"Where are you?" he muttered under his breath, rummaging in a wire basket on the top shelf. _Aha! Now we're getting somewhere_. Errant corkscrew in hand, he gingerly lifted one of the bottles out of the crate, and _very_ carefully proceeded to open it. You never could tell how homemade liqueur would react, but steady fingers from too many years of making and diffusing bombs stood him in good stead. The cork came out with a satisfyingly wet _pop_, and he lifted the bottle to his nose. _Oh, this is a good one_, he thought as he inhaled the scent of cranberries and lime, overlaid with cinnamon and allspice.

"Glasses, glasses," he murmured, scanning the metal shelf above his head, searching for the collection of shot glasses he'd lifted from various biker bars. He was a sucker for a souvenir.

A few minutes later, he approached Nikita with two shot glasses filled to the brim with the dark red liquid. "A little Christmas cheer for you, Sugar." Her eyes widened as he handed her a glass. "Just don't go walking in front of any buses on your way home, okay?"

Nikita eyed the glass warily. "Not that cranberry stuff again?" she asked in mock horror.

Walter winced inwardly at her description of his carefully nurtured liqueur, then reluctantly admitted she had a point. Some vintages had been better than others. "Trust me – I tweaked the recipe a little," he told her proudly. "This one's the one." He held up his glass in a toast. "Here's mud in your eye, Sugar."

Grinning, Nikita looked him in the eye and clinked her glass against his. "Here's to my favourite guy in Section."

Walter sighed loudly, then gave her a wink. "Now we both know _that's_ not true."

By silent agreement, they tossed back their drinks in one gulp. Walter closed his eyes, savouring the rich, fruity darkness of the liqueur as it burned a trail down to the pit of his stomach. When he heard a gasp, he opened his eyes to see Nikita spluttering, her bright blue eyes glittering with tears. "Good God!" She coughed a few times, then produced a watery smile. "Actually, it's not too bad."

Walter licked his lips, feeling very pleased with himself. "I'm glad you like it. I used some of that killer vodka you gave me last year."

Nikita inspected her glass, a doubtful expression suddenly crossing her face. "The vodka I brought back from Poland?"

"That's the stuff – hits the spot, don't it?" He took the glass from her hand. "One for the road?"

She shook her head hastily. "No, thanks. I've had enough vodka this week, I think," she replied cryptically. "I'd better push off." With a final squeeze of his hand, she was gone, striding through Section as though she owned the place. Walter smiled at the sight, then considered the empty glass in each hand.

_Damn, that's a good brew. I wonder if that cute little tech in DRV would like a quick snort?_

  


### Seven Days

As he watched the grainy video feed on the screen embedded in the wall of the Perch, Operations began to smile broadly. McDaniel's team had retrieved the target without incident, and had managed to destroy a toxin supply in the process. Amazing. For once, a mission that went strictly by the numbers, with no screwups or unanticipated contingencies. Would miracles never cease?

Tapping a key, he switched the view to the feed from the White Room. There, a perspiration-drenched captive sat, stumbling over his words as he recited the membership roll of his organization to a nodding, encouraging Madeline. How long had she had with him? Twenty minutes, at most. Beautiful. At the rate the man was talking, she might even be free for lunch.

Content with what he saw, he turned away from the screen and strolled over to the window. Below him, everything looked in order: a disciplined army, working steadily, diligently, quietly. There were no flashing lights or pulsing tones, no frantic operatives running back and forth, no emergencies or incoming wounded.

Every so often, on those oh-so-rare occasions, all was right with the world.

Instinctively, he slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. As his fingers touched the metal surface of his cigarette case, he frowned, hesitating.

_I really need to cut down on these things._

That little nagging voice kept cropping up more and more frequently, and to make matters worse, he knew it was right. Damn it. Couldn't a man indulge in any vices without feeling guilty?

_Oh, the hell with it. They haven't killed me yet._

He grasped the case and started to pull it out, but stopped when he heard a shrill beeping from his other pocket. His phone. Only two people called that number regularly, and one of them was presently occupied in the White Room.

It figured George would call just when everything seemed to be going well. The sullen-faced SOB couldn't just let him have a good day.

Releasing his grip on the cigarette case, he fished in his other pocket and withdrew the telephone instead.

"Yes?" he grunted.

"Good afternoon, Paul."

Hearing George's voice -- simultaneously smug and dour -- was like touching something putrid: you couldn't help but shudder, no matter how much you prepared yourself.

"George," Operations replied. He forced himself to remain civil, despite the fact that just saying the man's name made his gut turn somersaults. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Crimson Fist. I hear they're becoming active in Southern Europe."

If "becoming active" meant spray painting hyperbolic graffiti on a few highway overpasses and torching a handful of parked police cars, sure, they were becoming active. In reality, they were a penny-ante imitation of Red Cell who couldn't drum up a dozen members for a meeting if they gave away door prizes.

"We're monitoring them carefully," Operations said dryly.

"Well, that's very gratifying," George said, his tone equally dry. "But I'd still like a full report so I can fill in the other Sections. Do you think you can manage that?"

Oh, for God's sake. Couldn't George come up with better ways to waste their time?

Operations sighed in exasperation, not caring if the noise were audible over the telephone. "You'll have it in a week."

George snorted. "It had better be sooner than that. I don't intend to spend Christmas reading reports from One, you know. I want it no later than five days from now."

Shit. Christmas was a week from today. How could he have forgotten?

"Fine," he replied, momentarily disconcerted. "Five days."

"Good." George drew in a long, rasping breath. "By the way," he added, his voice lowering to a gravelly drawl, "if you call me on the 24th or 25th, I expect it to be an emergency. Otherwise, I'll remove certain portions of your anatomy that I'm sure you'd rather not do without."

"Don't worry, George," Operations said acidly, "the last thing I want to do is disturb your holiday."

George chuckled. "Then we understand each other. Goodbye, Paul. And Happy Christmas."

After he heard the line click off, Operations snapped the telephone shut and dropped it back into his pocket. Leaning against the ledge, he stared morosely out the window; outside, the operatives continued to work as before, but their quiet industriousness no longer pleased him. Every so often, one of them glanced up nervously: it was as if they could sense his plummeting mood, as if the temperature within Section were literally dropping. When even Birkoff attempted to sneak a covert look upwards, Operations scowled and turned away.

So George was taking the holiday off. How nice. In contrast, _he_ would be putting in eighteen-hour days from now until well past New Year's. Despite what George might wish, the rest of the world didn't drop what they were doing just because Western countries were celebrating Christmas. Even in the West, terrorist groups saw the season as an opportunity, with police and security forces distracted and short-staffed.

It would be, as always, Section One's most hectic time of year. And there wasn't anything jolly about it. No carving of the Christmas ham; no aroma of fresh-baked gingerbread men wafting from the kitchen; no chopping down the tree and getting covered with pine needles hauling it home; no moonlit sleigh rides around the lake; no singing carols around the piano with Great-Aunt Betty while Grandma dozed off by the fire; no red and white-striped candy canes poking temptingly out the top of the stockings Christmas morning. Just stress-filled days and nights trying to make sure that everyone _else_ got to enjoy those things.

Then again, he wasn't sure he would still enjoy them, even given the opportunity. Or if he ever really had.

As nostalgically appealing as his childhood Christmas might seem in retrospect, the experience at the time had been dramatically different. His arthritic grandfather always butchered the ham, cursing under his breath while he did so, but refused to relinquish the honor of carving to anyone else; helping his father wrestle the Christmas tree indoors made him sweaty and irritable, while the jabbing of the pine needles caused him to break out in welts; and he once got a frostbitten toe while on one of those idyllic moonlit sleigh rides. Besides, he _hated_ singing carols: standing prim and proper by the piano for so long made him restless and fidgety, and Great-Aunt Betty was painfully tone-deaf. As for the gingerbread men, he and his cousin Pete usually bit off their heads and fed the rest to the dogs, sending the poor animals scrambling for their water bowls afterwards. And candy canes? They were such a boring candy, although he enjoyed licking them to turn his tongue funny colors, then sticking it out at prissy cousin Rachel.

Frankly, he could happily do without any of it.

Was there anything he really missed about Christmas? Of course. The excitement of receiving presents, most definitely. Baseball gloves, shiny new bikes, train sets, toy guns: all of those had given him a thrill on Christmas mornings. But his fondest childhood Christmas memory was the year he got the camouflage outfit, complete with helmet and face paint. He spent the rest of the day skulking around the house, leaping around corners and gleefully ambushing the "enemy" -- otherwise known as his younger cousins -- until they ran crying to the grownups for protection. Now _that_ had been fun.

You know, maybe he was spending this Christmas doing the thing he liked best, after all.

_Ho, ho, ho_, he thought, smirking and reaching back into his pocket. Time for that cigarette. He could always cut back after New Year's.


	4. Chapter 4

### Six Days

"Take him to Containment." Michael handed the erstwhile arms dealer – a man responsible for thousands of deaths in the last year alone – over to the two waiting Level Three Ops, then watched as they swiftly manhandled him down the corridor.

"Good work."

Michael turned to the white-haired man who'd come to stand beside him, and inclined his head in a subtle acknowledgment of the praise. "His people were not quite as loyal as he perhaps thought," he said quietly.

A humourless smile appeared on Operations' lips. "Disloyalty is a common problem," he replied dryly, looking at Michael with guileless blue eyes. "Even in Section."

Long practice allowed Michael to quickly school his features into a neutral expression, but his pulse quickened at the other man's words. He'd been out in the field for nearly a week, and the situation regarding the Type One Directive and his relationship with Nikita remained unresolved; a potentially fatal game of cat and mouse. "When would you like me to debrief?"

A barely there smile appeared on Operations' face, as though Michael's bland dismissal of the subject of loyalty had somehow pleased or amused him. "As soon as possible, if you don't mind. While you were away, George gave Section the rather odious task of compiling a comprehensive report on the resurgence of Crimson Fist in the European sector." His smile grew slightly. "I'd like your input."

_The art of delegation at its finest_, Michael thought with reluctant admiration. "Of course."

~*~*~*~

Four hours later, Michael rubbed a weary hand across his gritty eyes. As well as garnering a huge amount of intel using one of Birkoff's many encrypted search engines, he'd sent out several feelers into the shadowy world of informants and lowlifes. In twelve hours he should have enough information on Crimson Fist to placate even Oversight. He was now free to leave Section, but there was one more thing he wanted to do before he went home.

_Home_. The word tugged at his heart. The apartment to which he'd been relocated after the completion of the Vachek profile was no more his home than the hotel room he'd just left behind in Prague.

Abruptly pushing back his chair, Michael rose to his feet and left his office. Madeline was still interrogating their latest guest; Operations was ensconced in a video hook up with the Singapore sub-station. And, perhaps most importantly, Nikita wasn't due in Section for another hour. It wasn't that he didn't want to see her. After all, they had been apart for nearly two weeks, and the longing to see her face, lose himself in the warmth of her smile was almost unbearable. But given what he was about to do, he didn't want his already conflicted emotions further complicated by Nikita's presence.

He walked quickly through Section. Operatives rushed past him, grimly intent on their destinations and tasks, the steady hum of electrical equipment mingling with the sharper sound of human voices. It could have been any time of the day, any day of the year. There was nothing around him to indicate one of the most widely celebrated religious festivals was only days away.

His own intended destination was a much more secluded area, a restricted floor only Level Five Operatives or higher could access. He may have turned down Madeline's seemingly magnanimous offer to keep him informed of Adam and Elena's status, but he had no intention of losing track of them. His refusal of Madeline's offer had nothing to do with his feelings toward his deep profile family. The simple reason was that there was no such thing as a magnanimous gesture in Section.

The only elevator with access to Level Two was located in a narrow corridor directly beneath Operations' office. It had been months since Michael had walked this route. On that occasion, he had been tailing Nikita, vaguely concerned for her safety, completely unaware that she was doing both Adrian's and Operations' bidding. Michael gave himself a mental shake as he keyed in the code that would summon the elevator. Now was not the time for such reminiscences.

Once on Level Two, Michael walked swiftly to the small room that housed Section's most secure databases. As a rule, Section preferred to eliminate loose ends rather than participate in a bastardized form of a witness relocation program, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Michael knew that since the death of Salla Vachek, Adam and Elena's details would have been updated on a daily basis, their every moment monitored.

The question was, however, how much did he want to know?

After he'd gained access to the room, it took a few minutes to locate the correct panel. Michael stood in front of the glowing screen, keying in the temporary access code that wouldn't exist after he left this room, and his heart began to pound. After a few more keystrokes, the screen filled with unemotional, clinical facts and figures that made up his wife and child's lives.

Their exact location was not recorded. Only Operations had the power to recall that information. If he was brutally honest with himself, Michael was relieved he didn't have to face that particular temptation.

He scrolled through the initial psychologists' reports, his heart aching as he read of his son's nightmares and Elena's painfully slow adjustment to the state of widowhood. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to keep reading, knowing he couldn't take the risk of accessing this database again for at least another six months. Michael lingered over the reports of his son's progress in his first year of school, a smile touching his lips for the first time that day.

He swiftly scanned the most recent information. As of last week, Adam's nightmares had decreased in frequency. Two days ago, for the first time since her husband's 'death', Elena had left Adam with an elderly neighbour and gone for coffee with a girlfriend. Yesterday, she had taken Adam on a visit to Father Christmas at their local department store. His family was slowly healing, Michael realised. Perhaps it was time he did the same.

~*~*~*~

When he reached his office, Nikita was casually leaning up against the closed door, reading a paperback, looking for all the world as though she were waiting for a bus. She was dressed simply in narrow black trousers, a black polo neck sweater and a bright red overcoat. As he drew closer, she looked up and gave him a brilliant smile. "Hi there, stranger," she drawled flirtatiously. "What's your name again?"

It was obvious she had no idea Operations was deep in conversation with Davenport less than five metres away. "What are you doing here?" Michael asked softly.

Surprise flickered in the depths of Nikita's bright blue eyes at his lacklustre response. "Well, I missed you too," she shot back with faint sarcasm.

Michael didn't reply. _We have an audience_, he silently implored her, holding her gaze with his. When he didn't speak, Nikita glanced over his shoulder, and her irritated expression was replaced with one of understanding. "I wanted to let you know how Hanoi went," she replied coolly, raising her voice slightly. "But I think I'll come back when you're in a better mood."

Her tone was one of pure petulant resentment, but he saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes. Hoping Operations was less astute than he when it came to reading Nikita's expressions, Michael frowned at her. "Unless it's urgent, it will have to wait until tomorrow. I'm leaving in a few minutes."

One corner of her generous mouth tilted upwards in a secretive smile as she caught his unspoken message. Rolling her eyes, she turned to walk away. "Jeez, Michael, you should try lightening up one of these days. Try not to be so bah humbug, would you?" Giving Operations and Davenport a tight little smile, she stalked off.

Michael ignored her parting words, and - as much as he usually enjoyed the view - deliberately averted his gaze as she walked away. As he opened the door to his office, Operations came to stand beside him, his business with Davenport obviously concluded. "I see she's in fine form," he said dryly.

_You have no idea_, Michael mused silently as he let his gaze alight fleetingly on Nikita's departing figure. Feeling the familiar twist of desire streak through him, he nodded to Operations and slipped quickly into his office.

As he shut down his computer and shrugged into his overcoat, he thought of Nikita's veiled reference to the coming Christmas holiday. _Bah humbug_, she'd said. Even though it had been a comment made for Operations' benefit, Michael couldn't help wondering if it had a basis in truth as far as she was concerned. He'd certainly never celebrated the holiday with her. Indeed, Christmas had never had a place in his Section Life.

Slipping his hand into the pocket of his overcoat to retrieve his gloves, his fingertips brushed something cold and smooth. He pulled out his gloves, and the small white candle he'd brought back from Prague fell into his palm. Curling his fingers around it, he remembered the sense of peace that had come over him in that small church. The feeling of hope, after so much grief.

Michael slipped the candle back into his pocket. Section One did not close over Christmas. Evil had its own agenda, and the terrorists of the world did not stop to observe December 25th. But perhaps he and Nikita could find peace in each other.

Knowing her as he did, he suspected Nikita would now rush through whatever task had brought her into Section in record time so she could beat him back to his own apartment. If she did, he would find her curled up in his bed, waiting for him, clad in little more than a mischievous smile. After two weeks of enforced abstinence, the mere thought sent a wave of pure lust surging through him.

Perhaps he should make certain she arrived at his apartment first. After all, even if he lost, he would win. Turning off the light in his office, he pulled the door shut behind him, making no effort to hurry. _Bah humbug_, he thought with a tiny smile.

  


### Five Days

Operations made his way steadily along the sidewalk, stepping carefully in his polished dress shoes to avoid slipping on patches of ice. Glancing around at the snow-covered surroundings, he found himself surprisingly relaxed. The air was frosty, the sky was a crisp winter blue, and he was blissfully alone: no bothersome operatives tagging along, not even the usual coterie of beefy bodyguards trailing him from a discreet distance. To his immense satisfaction, he had managed to ditch them shortly after leaving Section. By now, they were probably in a state of panicked horror, trying to decide whether they should call Madeline and report that they'd lost him, or pretend that nothing was amiss in the hope that he'd quickly reappear.

He hoped they'd have the sense to choose the latter. The last time he disappeared, his now ex-bodyguards had been foolish enough to trigger a formal alarm: the priority ten protocol they'd set in motion had bypassed Madeline and gone straight to Oversight, causing no end of aggravation. Idiots. Why couldn't these people figure out there were times to follow procedures, and there were times to look the other way? If they didn't have the brains to recognize the difference -- even after the broad hints he kept dropping -- then abeyance was probably too good for them.

Still, as long as they avoided contacting Oversight this time, things would probably be fine. At least if they called Madeline first, she would know to keep a lid on it. While she'd be annoyed that he traveled without protection -- and would mince no words expressing her displeasure afterwards -- that was just too bad. Frankly, it was none of her business if he chose to forego his Section escort occasionally, anyway.

In any event, he only needed his freedom for a few minutes. Just long enough to take care of a little personal business. Then he could 'remember' to switch the tracking device in his watch back on, and no one would be the wiser.

Walking faster, he breathed deeply, allowing the cold air to fill his nose and lungs, steamy clouds spiraling away as he exhaled. In his tan overcoat and leather gloves, he adopted the attitude of an ordinary businessman on a mid-morning errand, indistinguishable from the other pedestrians hurrying along. Every so often one of them brushed past him or knocked his elbow; they would murmur a polite apology and move on without a second glance. Their indifference amused him: it was so different from Section, where operatives scurried out of his path like timid squirrels fleeing a hungry-looking dog.

It was refreshing to be anonymous for a change. A man of no consequence, instead of one who bore the world's problems on his shoulders. Well, refreshing for a while: in truth, it bored him rather quickly. But for a moment or two, it was more than pleasant to be Joe Average, out for a winter stroll.

Spying a pay phone at a corner, he slowed his pace. Casually, he glanced over his shoulder to ensure he wasn't being observed. No one. He grasped the telephone receiver, discreetly attached a tiny scrambling device, and rapidly dialed a number.

The line picked up on the second ring. "Guten morgen," said a bland male voice.

"This is Williams, from Baltimore," Operations said cautiously.

"Ah, Mr. Williams." The man switched immediately into precise, Swiss-accented English. "What can I do for you today?"

"I want to make a transfer into Mr. Kane's account."

"Certainly, sir. The usual amount?"

He hesitated. The usual amount was more than enough -- in fact, probably too much for someone like Willie to handle responsibly. As he pondered the question, his gaze fell upon a threaded silver wreath hanging in the storefront window across the street.

Another Christmas, and Willie had no one. Other than his buddies Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, that is.

"Double it," he ordered curtly.

"Very well, sir. Anything else?"

"No. That's all for now."

He pressed the lever to terminate the call, detached the scrambler, and returned the receiver to its cradle. Slipping the scrambler into a coat pocket, he walked swiftly in the direction of his car, snow crunching noisily underfoot.

As he turned onto a main thoroughfare, he fell in step with a procession of holiday shoppers. Immediately ahead ambled an elderly woman in a long fur coat. Clutching several shopping bags in one hand, she jerked periodically on a leash with the other, dragging a doddering poodle in a red knit sweater. She sauntered slowly, as if she had nowhere in particular to go, seemingly indifferent to the fact that she, her packages, and her dog were blocking the sidewalk completely.

He remained stuck behind her for several minutes, his patience rapidly ebbing. He tried unsuccessfully to find a way past without shoving her aside, while his perfectly shined Italian shoes squashed in the heavily-trod snow, slowly collecting a coat of sodden gray slush. He stepped to one side, then the other; somehow, she managed to meander into his path no matter which way he weaved. The poodle snuffled and wandered aimlessly as its owner peered at window displays; while they moved more and more slowly, his aggravation mounted.

_Would you get a move on?_ he urged her silently. _I have to get back to saving the world, you old biddy._

As if to spite him, the woman abruptly stopped. Juggling with her bags, she fumbled in her purse for several moments and withdrew a handful of change. Leaning over, she dropped the coins into a can resting in front of a homeless man who sat cross-legged on a battered piece of cardboard.

When the coins clattered noisily into the can, the man curled a scornful lip.

"That's all?" he asked belligerently. "Where's your Christmas spirit?"

A shocked expression filled her wrinkled face, her generosity quickly turning to anger. "Ingrate! You don't deserve even that, Christmas or no. A healthy young man like you should be working."

With a disdainful lift of her chin, she stalked off -- at long last moving briskly -- the leash jangling as the poodle trotted alongside her.

Relieved that he could finally progress at a normal pace, Operations took a step to leave, but then stopped short. There was something about the figure on the sidewalk that bothered him. Dressed in a grimy ski jacket and sporting a patchy blond beard, the young man looked about the same age he and Willie had been when on their tour of duty. Except that this kid was pathetic, whining and begging for money on the streets, at an age when he and Willie had been getting shot at for flag and country. What a disgrace.

"So," said the youth sharply, "are you going to give me some money, or are you just going to stare at me all day?"

Operations folded his arms, narrowing his eyes to examine the man with disapproval. "She's right," he announced sternly. "You ought to get a job."

A snort of disgusted laughter erupted. "Oh, fuck off, Mr. Big-shot Executive. I don't owe you anything."

Watching this scrawny societal reject regard him with a superior sneer, Operations felt a flare of rage well up from his stomach to his throat. Livid, he reached into his pocket, yanked out his wallet, and plucked several crisp bills with large denominations from the billfold.

Crumpling the money and flinging it into the can, he barked, "Now you owe me plenty, and you're going to listen to what I have to say."

The young man gaped at the wad of cash, his eyebrows raised in a look of astonishment.

Operations bent down and fixed him with a baleful stare. "I'm sure you've got all sorts of reasons for being out here," he said mockingly. "Your puppy died when you were three, or your Mommy didn't hug you enough, or you didn't eat your vegetables. Whatever they are, I don't want to hear them." He jabbed his finger toward the money. "See that? That's enough to get you into rehab, or find an apartment, or do whatever you need to do to clean yourself up. So no more excuses."

The man shook his head defensively. "Look, it's not like that. I'm not lazy -- I've just had some bad breaks."

"Well, then, today's your lucky day," Operations said caustically. He glared at the young man, fighting the sudden impulse to reach down and wring his neck. The ferocity of his response disconcerted him. This kid was nobody, of less importance even than the terrorist vermin he exterminated, but somehow it had become desperately important that he make him listen. With a controlled intensity that nearly made his voice shake, he demanded, "Twenty-five years from now, do you really want to be a drunken wreck, living off other people's handouts?"

"Of course not."

"Good," he snapped. "Because now you have a choice. You can take this money and try to turn your life around, or you can waste it on something stupid and stay out here on the streets. If you waste it, then you _deserve_ to have little old ladies with overfed poodles turn their noses up at you." He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, and continued. "I, for one, don't really give a damn which choice you make."

"Then why'd you do this?" the young man asked, his forehead wrinkling with a bewildered expression.

Why? Good question. He frowned, puzzled by his own behavior, until the answer came to him, nauseating in its trite obviousness.

It was because he couldn't do it for Willie, that's why. He couldn't grab Willie by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, couldn't show up at his doorstep and yell at him until he agreed to go straight. All he could do was keep anonymously feeding his old friend money -- and watch helplessly as he destroyed himself.

_I'm not going to let you become Willie, you sniveling little brat. That's why I'm doing this._

He shrugged, swallowing through the growing constriction in his throat. "Just call me Santa Claus," he said sarcastically. "Now, get out of my sight before I change my mind."

The youth scrambled to his feet and snatched up the can of money. As he turned to leave, he paused. "Hey, thanks," he said hesitantly.

"Didn't I tell you to go?" Operations snarled.

Paling, the man bolted, nearly tripping in his haste. When he had vanished down the street, Operations turned abruptly on his heel and marched in the opposite direction, his jaw clenched so tightly that he felt his muscle twitch.

_The sorry bastard's lucky I didn't recruit him. I could find the little punk a job, all right._


	5. Chapter 5

### Four Days

"See you mañana, amigo." Walter playfully cuffed Birkoff on the ear as he passed his desk. "I'm outta here."

Birkoff didn't look up from his keyboard. "Another hot date?" he asked, more than a trace of envy in his voice.

Walter winked as he zipped up the front of his leather jacket. "I'm not one to brag, but...."

"I don't know when you have the time to find these women," Birkoff muttered as his fingers flew over his keyboard.

Walter waggled his eyebrows. "It's all about priorities, my friend."

Birkoff finally looked up at him. The overhead light glinted off his glasses, making it hard to see his eyes. "Considering my track record, I think I'm better off staying here," he said forlornly.

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, knowing Birkoff would just die of embarrassment if he smiled. But it was true - the kid had rotten luck with the ladies. He'd dated that little hottie Gail for a while, but she'd turned out to be less than devoted. To make matters worse, just when it seemed he'd accepted the inevitable – that he was never going to get the blonde - he'd scored a roll in the hay with Nikita's exact double (who'd then promptly dumped him on his ass). Not exactly the kind of thing to leave you brimming with confidence.

"You just need to look up from that keyboard once in a while." He reached over and patted Birkoff on the shoulder. "There's plenty of talent down here, amigo."

"For you, maybe," Birkoff muttered carelessly, and Walter felt a sharp pain lance his heart. Glancing up at him, Birkoff suddenly looked stricken. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...."

Feeling a familiar burning at the back of his eyes, Walter shook his head. He didn't want to talk about Belinda. Not in Section. Never in Section. "It's okay, Birkoff." He made a show of straightening the cuffs off his leather jacket, then gave Birkoff a determined grin. "Gotta go – can't keep the ladies waiting."

"Sure, sure," Birkoff said hastily, obviously wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. "See you tomorrow."

As he headed for the ground access elevator, Walter felt as though he'd been kicked in the guts. _Isn't it always the way? You manage not to think about it at least a whole day, and then a couple of innocent words can make you feel like complete crap._

As he passed Systems, Walter noticed Operations and Madeline having what looked like a deep and meaningful conversation. He ignored them. His head was full of Belinda, and he wasn't sure he could smile and play nicely just at the moment. He felt their eyes on him as he passed by, but he just kept walking.

When he reached the real world that lay five hundred feet above, it was lined with snow and looked bright and shiny, almost too bright for a pair of old eyes that had spent the last ten hours under artificial lighting. He fished out his sunglasses, then considered his options. Despite what he'd let Birkoff assume, he had no plans of the female variety for the evening. No, the only thing he planned to do was find some quiet corner in the nearest watering hole, sink a few beers, then go home to bed. _Alone_, he told himself determinedly, then sighed as two long-legged, forty-something brunettes sashayed past him, chattering excitedly in their native tongue. There was nothing like a handsome French filly, Walter thought appreciatively, but tonight he just wasn't in the mood.

He started walking in the direction of the nearest bar, then stopped. He wasn't in the mood for staying out for a few drinks either. Or catching a movie, or going for a burn on his latest bike. Walter stopped walking, letting the Parisian shoppers – their arms laden with exciting looking parcels - rush past him. Tonight, he really only wanted one thing. The problem, it was the one thing he couldn't have.

Walter turned on his heel and headed for home. It was a twenty-minute walk, but he wanted to clear his head. He was certainly in no rush to get home. No matter how much he wished it to be otherwise, his apartment would be dark and empty. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes watered, making him blink angrily. Damn it, he'd lived alone for years and it had never bothered him before. But that was before he'd met Belinda, and for a few, glorious days, had known what it was like to have it all.

It was true what that old song said, Walter thought sadly. A taste of honey _was_ worse than none at all.

~*~*~*~

After stoking the fire to a glowing roar, Walter poured himself a whiskey – straight up, no ice – and returned to his battered but beloved leather armchair. The whiskey – the finest Dublin had to offer – was as smooth as silk, but it did nothing to smooth his ruffled thoughts.

God, how he missed her. Missed that cute little lop-sided smile. Missed hearing her delighted chuckle when he told her one of his jokes. How had she gotten to him so much, so quickly? Christ, he'd only known her two weeks before he'd found himself getting down on one creaking old knee and asking her to marry him. Walter took another sip of his drink, his eyes blurring with tears. If he'd been surprised by his own question, Belinda's answer had almost floored him. She'd said yes. Yes, to him, an old coot who liked to play around with gunpowder and remote triggers.

Walter wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. _You silly old bastard, sitting here crying into your soup._ He had to admit, though, there was a lot to be said for feeling sorry for yourself. It was almost a perverse pleasure to wallow in the misery he hadn't let himself show or even feel for months and months. Birkoff's little comment earlier that day had been the trigger, but it wasn't the kid's fault. Birkoff knew better than anyone that Belinda's death had nearly been the end of him. After all, Birkoff had been the one to break the news that Walter's bride of only a few hours had been on the business end of an abeyance mission. Walter didn't want to think about the murderous rage that had filled his heart that day, but he knew he'd managed to scare the bejeezus out of both Birkoff and Nikita.

Birkoff had come to see him at home the next day. Walter's rage had subsided somewhat, but he'd still been in no mood for chitchat. He could still see the look of determination on the kid's face as he'd put his booted foot in the door. "Walter...wait. Belinda told me...uh...she wanted me to tell you...she said to tell you that it's not a bad thing to die on the happiest day of your life."

_Poor Birkoff_, Walter thought guiltily. He must have gone through hell steeling himself to pass on that message, and all Walter had done was slam the door shut in his face. Miserable, he'd then gone back to bed, burying himself in a bottle of scotch and sheets that smelled of Belinda's perfume.

The phone rang, startling him out of his reverie. Still nursing his glass, he rose from the armchair and sauntered over to the telephone. Must be Section. He couldn't think of anyone else who'd be calling him here. Biting back a heavy sigh, he answered the phone. "Yup?"

"Walter?"

He had to smile. "Who else would it be, amigo?"

"Yeah, I guess. I hope I'm not interrupting your date," Birkoff sounded faintly nervous, which wasn't like him at all. Maybe he still felt bad about accidentally bringing up the subject of Belinda. Walter felt a flicker of guilt. _Poor kid. No use both of us feeling like crapola._

"That's okay, she didn't show," Walter hedged slightly, "What can I do for you, kiddo?"

There was a brief pause, then Birkoff said in a hesitant, quiet voice, "Gail's working the late shift tonight so I've got some downtime." He cleared his throat. "I thought I might go catch that James Bond double at the Metro, and was wondering...."

Walter put his glass down on the nearest flat surface, a grin tugging at his lips. Birkoff suddenly sounded as though he was about ten years old. "And you were wondering?"

"If you wanted to come along," Birkoff said in a rush, and Walter's grin widened. Did Birkoff know all along that his 'hot date' was a ruse, or was he so anxious for company that he was willing to risk interrupting that hot date?

He could almost feel Belinda standing beside him, her long fingers tangling with his, her chin resting on his shoulder. _You're too young to sit around here all night, drowning your sorrows and feeling sorry for yourself, Walter Jay. Don't make me get tough with you. _

Walter took a deep breath. Maybe it was time he took his own advice. Life wasn't just about the destination, but the journey along the way. "Sure thing, amigo," he replied softly, his eyes gritty but dry. "I'll meet you there in fifteen."

  


### Three Days

"Hey, Walter, here's that calibrating software you wanted," announced Birkoff, stepping across the threshold into Munitions with a disk clutched in his hand.

Seeing no one, he halted and glanced around in surprise. The workroom was oddly quiet, the low-frequency hum that suffused every location in Section clearly audible, broken only by the disembodied echoes of foot traffic and conversation seeping in from the main floor outside.

"Walter?" he called out, more hesitantly.

Walter had to be nearby -- a haphazard pile of loose wires and stray electronic components strewn across the table testified to his recent presence. As carefree as Munitions Chief seemed to be about other things, he was meticulous about keeping his workspace clean and orderly. As meticulous as Birkoff himself about writing clean code. It was one of the reasons they probably got along so well, despite their outer differences.

"Helloooooo, Walter? You back there?" Birkoff raised his voice slightly, peering into the depths of the storage area.

When he heard no answer, he set the disk on the table and headed into the rear corridors, glancing to each side for a sign of his friend. To his left stood rows of locked rifles, their barrels polished and gleaming, encircled by glass wall cases brimming with scopes and replacement parts. On the right, the armaments were more varied: handguns, tear gas launchers, tranq guns, tasers, and strange-looking contraptions that he couldn't even recognize. Further down were glittering knives and bladed weapons: row after row, shelf after shelf. There were implements of killing in every direction, but nowhere the bandana-wearing man of peace who tended them all.

Leaving the weapons, he made his way through racks of hanging gas masks and bulletproof vests. They swung slightly to and fro as he passed, like columns of soldiers standing at attention, ready to fall in line and march behind him. Finally, he entered the deepest region of storage: a cluttered warehouse full of dusty boxes and pallets, their sides bearing cheerful warnings like "Caution: Corrosive Materials."

_Oh, boy. It's a miracle there hasn't been a chain reaction in here. Yet._

This was pretty much the end of the road, and Walter was nowhere in sight. Oh, well. He could stop by and talk to him later.

Turning to leave, he spotted a small wooden crate poking out from behind several boxes. It seemed woefully out of place, overwhelmed by the massive containers surrounding it. In fact, it looked suspiciously like something off the books.

_What are you up to now, Walter?_

He dragged the crate from its hiding place and squatted down to peek inside. He shook his head in amusement at the contents: bottles, several empty, but most filled with an ominous-looking reddish-purple liquid, the color so bright he could swear it was radioactive.

Sure enough, Walter had made that toxic cranberry concoction again. Birkoff always refused to touch it, not wanting to kill off precious brain cells with some hippie equivalent of moonshine. In return, Walter scoffed at his squeamishness.

_You gotta loosen up a bit, kiddo_, Walter had told him the night before. _That's why the girls give you the brush-off. Being nice and sensitive is all well and good, but you've got to show them that you can be fun and spontaneous sometimes, too._

Fun. Spontaneous.

_Okay, Walter_, he thought. _I can loosen up. I'll prove it right now._

He reached determinedly into the crate and withdrew one of the already-opened bottles. Pulling off the top, he sniffed the contents warily. Whew! It smelled ghastly, like the vile chemical brew they used to sterilize the White Room after each use. He gulped, gathering courage to take a swig from the bottle, when his gaze landed upon a collection of shot glasses arranged lovingly upon a shelf.

_Sheesh, he's got quite the setup back here_, he thought, half expecting to discover a lawn chair and a barbecue lurking behind another group of boxes.

He snatched a glass from the shelf and poured a shot of the day-glo liquid, forcing himself to hurry before he came to his senses and changed his mind. He took a deep breath, counted to three, then threw the shot back like he'd seen people do in movies.

_Holy cow!_

His entire throat, nose, and even sinuses seemed afire. Coughing and gasping uncontrollably, he sprayed half of the drink out his mouth and across the front of his shirt, soaking it with deep scarlet splotches.

"God, Walter," he exclaimed aloud, eyes tearing, "you could remove paint with this stuff!"

Thumping his chest in an effort to recover, he didn't hear the footsteps approaching until they were nearly upon him. Shit! Someone was coming, and he was standing there with a shot glass in hand and wet cranberry stains on his clothes.

_Please, God, let it be Walter. _

"Walter?" asked Michael, sounding mildly concerned as he came into view. Then he stopped abruptly, his eyes flicking up and down as he gazed at Birkoff without expression.

Self-consciously, Birkoff wiped traces of the liquid from his mouth with his sleeve and set the shot glass back down on the shelf. A hundred possible explanations for the situation ran through his mind, but none of them made any real sense. Better not to say anything yet.

Michael watched him in silence, then finally spoke. "I was looking for Walter," he said softly, nothing in his demeanor giving the impression that he thought anything remotely odd was going on.

"Uh, he's not here," Birkoff answered, his face flushing uncomfortably.

_Was that the dumbest thing to say or what? Way to state the obvious, Birkoff!_

"I see," said Michael. He stood there for a moment, and added, "I'll come back later."

Birkoff nodded hastily. "Yeah, okay. If I see Walter, I'll tell him you're looking for him."

Michael stared at Birkoff for another split second. He had this way of looking at people without _really_ looking at them that would have come across as almost creepy if Birkoff hadn't known Michael so long. It was the kind of look he must use on terrorists right before he snapped their necks. "I would appreciate that," Michael said quietly, and then walked out as suddenly as he had arrived.

Oh, boy. Could it get more embarrassing than this? At least it was only Michael, and he'd never say anything to anyone -- even if he did think Birkoff had lost his mind. But what if it had been someone else? Someone with a big mouth, who would have gone blabbing about how Birkoff was drinking on the job? What had he been thinking?

_God, I'm an idiot. Only I could screw up "loosening up."_

How did people like Walter make being fun and spontaneous seem so effortless? No matter how hard he tried, it was hopeless. Maybe it was a skill someone had to be born with. Once upon a time, he had thought it could be learned: that if he'd only had a normal life, things could have been different. That, raised in another environment, he could have been a life-of-the-party type, as much a ladies man as Walter, even if not as suave as someone like Michael. _Yeah, right_, he thought sourly. _Short, skinny, nearsighted. All the raw ingredients for a playboy, all right._

_Let's face it, you'd be a nerd anywhere, Seymour. At least in Section you're important. Well, kind of, until they can figure out a way to replace you._

This gloomy train of thought was cut short by Walter's booming voice. "Well, I'll be damned! Can't an old man take a bathroom break without someone raiding his stash?"

Birkoff sighed. Yet another witness to his stupidity. "I'm sorry, Walter. You were talking about how good it was last night, so I decided to see for myself."

Walter grinned, a look of almost fatherly pride dancing in his eyes. "Good for you, amigo!" He walked over to the crate and pulled out one of the unopened bottles, and thrust it at Birkoff. "Here. Take one. Consider it an early Christmas present."

Birkoff shook his head. "That's okay. I didn't like it that much. You should keep it for yourself."

"No, I insist," Walter scolded, forcing the bottle into Birkoff's hands. "Keep it around -- it's not like it's going to go bad anytime soon. Maybe one of these days you'll change your mind." He chuckled. "Once your palate matures," he added, winking.

Birkoff shrugged noncommittally. "Okay," he said, taking the bottle reluctantly. "But if you want it back, just say so."

"Don't worry, I will. And Birkoff?"

"Yeah?"

"Go change shirts, okay? The ladies aren't usually too impressed by a fellow who drools on himself."

Birkoff stifled a groan of embarrassment. "Gee, thanks, Walter."


	6. Chapter 6

### Two days

Nikita stared at the vast array of computer games, trying to remember exactly which ones Birkoff already had in his collection. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a well-dressed, fair-haired man come to stand beside her. Darting a glance sideways, she noticed he was gazing up at the display with the same bewilderment she was experiencing. Obviously feeling her eyes on him, he turned his head and gave her a friendly smile. "It's difficult to choose, isn't it?" he asked in beautifully accented French, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe.

Nikita forced herself to return his smile. Not only did he have a wolfish gleam in his eyes as he stared at her breasts, but he also looked a little too much like Alec Chandler for her liking. Turning her attention back to the computer games, she replied without looking at him. "I'm just trying to find one that my friend doesn't already own," she replied flatly in English, unwilling to make the effort to translate her less than enthusiastic answer into French.

"Your boyfriend?" he asked smoothly, also switching to English.

She rolled her eyes. Same old lines. Why couldn't the male species invent some new ones? "No," she replied shortly, still not looking at him.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Nikita blinked, then turned to fix him with an icy stare. He was gazing at her smugly, as though he was in no doubt of her reply. "No, I'm afraid my husband doesn't like me having dinner with other men," she lied blithely. "Especially when I should be out buying the Christmas presents for our five children." She smiled at him and patted her flat stomach proudly. "Number six will be arriving next year."

The blonde stranger's eyes widened as his smile vanished. "Excuse my presumption, Madam," he muttered stiffly, hastily choosing two video games and backing away. "Merry Christmas to you."

"You too," she called sweetly after him, barely resisting the urge to cackle. _Idiot._ She turned back to the display of video games, trying to ignore the little pang brought on by her teasing brush-off. God knows she didn't want six children, but having the choice would have been nice. The decision whether or not she wanted a husband was no longer hers either.

With a skill born of long practice, Nikita shoved her resentment to one side. There was nothing she could do about either issue right now, but perhaps when it was all over.... She shook her head. She didn't want to think about Centre, or Mr. Jones and his annoying alter ego right now. She wanted to think about Christmas presents and eggnog and Belgium chocolate truffles and icy cold glasses champagne with strawberries lurking at the bottom of them.

_Easy to say, hard to do_, she thought with a sigh. She eyed the video games, scanning the titles. Birkoff loved anything that required shooting the living daylights out of everything in sight. Pretty funny, really, when you considered his attitude toward guns in real life.

"Popsicle!"

Nikita froze. _No. It can't be. God couldn't be that cruel._ She slowly turned, and came face to face with Mick Schtoppel, aka Mr Jones. The man about whom she'd just been busily thinking bad things. Putting her hands on her hips, Nikita looked him up and down. Judging by the bad suit and the cry of 'Popsicle', he was obviously in a Mick mood today. _Well, if that's the way he wants to play it...._

"Go away, Mick," she drawled, turning her back on him. One of the few perks of having Mick around was that she could take out any anti-Mr Jones sentiments on him, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. After all, her dislike of Mick was well known. If she suddenly started being nice to him, people would notice.

"Don't be like that, darling," Mick danced around her until he was once more in her line of sight. "Can't a bloke say hello to his favourite neighbour?"

"As far as I know none of the other neighbours talk to you, Mick." Nikita plucked two promising looking video games off the shelf. "Being your favourite is hardly a stretch."

Mick clapped his hands over his heart. "Ouch, baby."

She sighed and looked at him in exasperation. "Did you actually want something?"

His expression didn't alter from its comical mask but his voice was no longer that of Mick Schtoppel. "Just wanted to have a little chat, Popsicle." The endearment was quite different when said in Mr. Jones' voice, and Nikita felt a little shiver dance down her spine. His dark brown eyes never left hers. "You weren't at home, and it is rather important."

_Damn, damn and more damn._ Nikita looked down at the video games in her hand, then back up at Mr. Jones beseechingly. "Can't it wait?"

He hesitated, and just for a moment, Nikita had the strangest impression that Mr. Jones and Mick Schtoppel were competing for supremacy. However, it was Mr. Jones who glanced at his watch and gave her a crisp smile. "Meet me in an hour."

Her heart residing somewhere in the pit of her stomach, Nikita swallowed hard. "Okay. The usual place?"

Instead of answering her, he studied the games in her hands, then lifted his eyes to hers. "You're doing Christmas shopping," he said in an odd voice.

Nikita tightened her grip on Birkoff's intended present. "Yes."

His dark eyes were unreadable, but once again Nikita could have sworn she caught a glimpse of Mick Schtoppel. "Have you finished?"

"No," she replied softly, then pressed her lips into a tight line. _I will not ask for favours. Not from him. _

"Hmmm." Mr. Jones glanced over his shoulder, his head tilting in an almost imperceptible nod. Following his gaze, Nikita spotted no one that even remotely looked like they could be Centre goons, but she had no doubt they were there. He turned back to Nikita. "There's a coffee shop on the fifth floor," he said smoothly. "Meet me there in ten minutes. I'll need half an hour of your time, then you can return to your shopping."

Nikita was too taken aback by this unexpected show of generosity to say more than a hasty, "I'll be there." She took a few steps toward the cash register, then turned back to offer him an uncertain smile. "Thanks."

"If you're doing your Christmas shopping, Popsicle," Mick Schtoppel grinned at her, "do try to remember that I like red wine, not white, and I'm definitely an 'easy listening' kind of guy." He wriggled his well-shaped eyebrows comically. "None of that techno rubbish you like to play."

Nikita opened her mouth to retort, then clamped it shut. Mick Schtoppel was certainly annoying, but at this very moment, she liked him much more than she'd ever liked Mr. Jones. Marveling at just how very weird her life had become, she gave her neighbour a wry smile. "I'll see what I can do."

  


### Christmas Eve

Gently lifting the earthenware pot, Madeline poured herself another serving of tea. The green liquid gurgled from the spout, trailing a wisp of steam as it filled the tiny cup. Finished, she set the pot back down; it came to rest on the glass surface of her desk with a light clack.

She sipped slowly, the delicate flavor filling her mouth and lingering on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she forced her perception to narrow, limiting her awareness to the sensation of the hot liquid slipping down her throat, to the mild aroma that clung faintly to the sides of the cup. When other thoughts threatened to seep into her consciousness, she took another sip, concentrating harder, until finally they were vanquished.

Calm.

Control.

Focus.

In the waning hours of the night, such moments of clarity were becoming increasingly difficult to achieve. After a full day -- and now evening -- of intense activity, she felt her mental sharpness blurring, her energy fading under the strain of juggling too many tasks for too long a time. In an effort to stave off growing fatigue, she began engaging in mental exercises at brief intervals throughout the evening. Setting aside all abstract thoughts, she would contemplate something simple and concrete: the subtle flavor of the freshly brewed gyokuro; the rich color of the orchid bloom in the center of the room; the gnarled shapes of the bonsai in the cabinet.

It worked, as always. But it required more and more effort each time -- especially now, a full twenty hours after the telephone had jarred her awake that morning.

~*~*~*~

She reached for the beeping telephone instinctively, not even bothering to switch on the bedside lamp. When she answered, Paul's voice greeted her, crackling with impatient energy.

"Madeline. I have an idea."

She had long since lost count of the number of times her day had been launched by exactly those words; their utterance rendered her instantly alert, no matter what the hour. When inspiration seized Paul, the time of day was irrelevant -- as was whatever else she might have been doing.

Sitting up, she ran a hand through her hair. "What is it?" she asked, her throat still rough with sleep.

"I've decided I want to play Santa Claus this year," he announced matter-of-factly.

His words registered in her mind, but they made such little sense that she couldn't conceive of a context to place them in, much less a coherent response. After a moment spent recovering her capacity for speech, she asked numbly, "I beg your pardon?"

She heard him chuckle darkly. "You know. Fat man. Beard. Red suit. Slides down chimneys Christmas Eve to leave surprises for all the little girls and boys."

This was a dream, she concluded. Not a nightmare, exactly, but perhaps some bizarre expression of job stress and sublimated seasonal sentiment. If she remembered it when she awoke, she would have to write down the details for further analysis. For now, she had no choice but to allow it to take its course.

"I'm well aware of who Santa Claus is, Paul," she said, struggling to keep the bewilderment out of her voice. "What I'm not clear about is why we're discussing this subject at two in the morning."

"Because we have a lot of work to do," he replied, sounding strangely pleased with himself. "I've got my list, and I've checked it twice, but I think I need your input to decide who's been naughty or nice."

If this weren't a dream, then he had completely lost his mind. Either that, or he was deliberately trying to goad her into anger -- and succeeding at it in a truly spectacular fashion.

"Is there a point to this?" she asked icily.

He burst into laughter, apparently amused at her annoyance. "Yes, actually, there is a point," he finally answered, the laughter fading and his tone growing serious.

"And that might be?"

"Every year at this time, just like clockwork, we go on high alert, waiting for one of these groups to try and take advantage of the season and catch us off guard. Well, I'm sick of playing defense every Christmas. I want to go on the offensive instead, and hit our enemy full force just when they expect us to be slowing down."

As she listened to his explanation, her eyes began adjusting to the darkness, the outline of the room slowly taking shape. She nodded in relieved comprehension. "You want to initiate a preemptive strike. On the holiday."

"On Christmas Eve," he affirmed, his voice rich with mirth. "I want to pay them a little nighttime visit, just like good old St. Nick. Except without the sack of toys."

Through the telephone, she heard him suck in a long drag on a cigarette, then exhale forcefully. She could picture him perfectly; right now, he'd be looming at the Perch windows like a dark-suited Mephistopheles, framed in a hazy swirl of smoke as he stared intently across the nearly-empty floor below. Judging by the trace of hoarseness in his voice, he'd probably been up all night, pacing and mulling over his idea until he couldn't stand to keep it to himself any longer.

Not that she blamed him for wanting to share it. It was brilliant, inspired, and pure Paul -- an aggressive, impulsive plan of action, full of that lethal deviousness that she had come to admire so much in him. It was the sort of idea she never would have conceived of herself, but took joy in taking and bringing to life, painstakingly molding it from abstract vision into material existence.

"Who's the target?" she asked, her mind starting to race with the various possibilities.

"All hostiles posing a Class C level threat or above, where we have a seventy-five percent or better fix on their location. I'll leave it to you to coordinate with DRV to narrow it down to specific individuals. But I'm committing full capacity to this -- I want this to be the biggest surprise raid in the history of the Agency."

She caught her breath, taken aback by the scope of what he was proposing. "An operation of that magnitude will strain our resources to the limit," she cautioned. "If anything goes wrong, Section could be crippled irreparably."

More to the point, Section's leadership would likely suffer the harshest possible punishment for such a colossal failure. However, she declined to voice that thought.

"Then we'll just have to make sure nothing goes wrong," he replied confidently. "After all, that's what I have you for, isn't it?"

~*~*~*~

She glanced at her watch. Only five more minutes before the first wave of missions went live and she was needed on Tactical. She had spent the past twenty hours working frantically -- sifting through data, coordinating profiles, redeploying teams -- all with the aim of striking against virtually all their enemies at once, in a single, frenzied moment of concentrated violence.

The plan was insane: excessively ambitious, hideously complicated, and dangerously dependent on their being able to prod scores of reluctant and resentful operatives into working harder than ever before -- on a day when all of them wanted desperately to be at home. Paul's idea was virtually impossible, in fact, and he had dropped it in her lap with the blithe assumption that somehow she would figure it all out.

Yet, to her surprise, the experience had been completely thrilling. The unprecedented scope -- and the dire cost of failure -- made it a form of high-stakes gambling: risky, nerve-wracking, and utterly addictive. Indeed, as the final minutes wound down, she found herself caught up in a sense of excitement that swept away her fatigue, restless with an impatient anticipation of the coming holiday that she hadn't experienced since the earliest years of childhood.

It seemed that everyone celebrated Christmas in their own, special way. At long last, she had found one that suited her.


	7. Chapter 7

### Christmas Day

Operations stalked energetically back and forth in the Perch, listening to the chattering radio traffic from Comm with a burgeoning sense of glee. The night was just starting, and every team so far had exceeded expectations. His instincts had been right -- no one saw them coming, and no one escaped the dragnet as Section's teams swooped down like bloodthirsty demons, intent on dragging their prey to hell.

It was ferocious. It was chaotic. It could even be called barbaric. And he hadn't had so much fun in years.

Even better, Madeline seemed to have been infected by his enthusiasm. Each time she came upstairs to strategize, he recognized a glint of predatorial enjoyment in her dark eyes that he had rarely witnessed since their days out in the field. She laced her progress reports with a cutting, dry humor; she even laughed instead of rolling her eyes when he began making sarcastic, holiday-related puns.

Yes, decimating one's opponents was marvelously invigorating. Alas, aside from Madeline, none of the other operatives seemed capable of appreciating it. They were such crybabies, moaning about how unfair it was to make them work on their precious holiday. Unbelievable. They had just taken scores of monsters off the streets and probably saved countless lives, and all these people could do was boo-hoo over not getting to open their stockings by the fireplace Christmas morning.

He'd even overheard Walter muttering "Bah, humbug" behind his back as he passed by Munitions several hours earlier. If he hadn't found it so funny, he might have been offended. Luckily for Walter, the day's events had put him in a very forgiving mood.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Madeline's voice from the entryway. "The team in Copenhagen just returned," she announced crisply.

"They're behind schedule," he remarked, frowning. "Was there a problem?"

She crossed the Perch to join him by the ledge, turning her head to gaze out at the floor below. "The target indulged in too much Christmas cheer tonight," she explained, continuing to look out the window as he studied her serene profile. "After monitoring his usual haunts, the team eventually found him passed out in an alley."

"Mmm, fine then," he grunted, satisfied. "Has he sobered up yet?"

"You mean can he answer questions?" When he nodded, an amused smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Not quite yet, but I expect to entertain him in the White Room sometime soon." An eyebrow arched upwards as her smile widened ever so slightly. "I'm afraid he'll have to take a number, however. Containment's starting to get rather crowded."

He leaned against the ledge and folded his arms, taking a deep, contented breath. "You know," he mused, "there's only thing that keeps this from being perfect."

"What's that?" She turned from the window toward him, her expression full of curiosity.

"That I won't be there in person to see the look on George's face when he finds out we've done this," he replied, unable to hold back a smirk.

"You didn't tell him?" Her voice was as smooth as ever, but a subtle widening of her eyes betrayed her shock.

"He told me not to contact him over the holidays except in an emergency," he said, his mouth twitching as he tried to repress a laugh. "Far be it for me to disregard his wishes."

"It was a significant risk." Her manner was half reproachful, half teasing.

"All the better," he retorted. "The bigger the risk, the more satisfying it is to win."

They held a long look, and he knew they were thinking the same thing: how even more satisfying it would be to win the war against George, instead of just skirmishes like this one. Why, this night was just a small taste of things to come if they wrested Oversight from the old man's clammy grasp.

_Soon_, he reassured himself. _Just a little longer and that son-of-a-bitch won't know what hit him._

She finally broke their shared look to glance down at the delicate silver watch on her wrist. "It's Christmas," she said, her expression growing slightly uncomfortable.

He checked his own watch. Just past midnight. "So it is."

After an awkward silence, he cleared his throat. "If you're not too tired to eat, I've had some food prepared," he said, forcing a false casualness into his voice. "It's already set out in the dining room, if you'd like to join me."

When she frowned and averted her gaze as if she were about to decline his invitation, he felt his muscles tighten, his abdomen clenching as if preparing for a physical blow. But then she lifted her eyes back toward him and smiled faintly. "I haven't eaten all day. Perhaps I should have something." She paused, then added apologetically, "However, Lagos goes live in twelve minutes. Do you think the food will keep a bit longer?"

"Of course," he said, relaxing in relief.

With a curt nod, she turned and departed. He turned back toward the window, watching keenly as she crossed the floor and took her position behind Birkoff. Smiling to himself, he resumed his steady pacing, relishing the impending commencement of the next mission as if it were a new present to unwrap.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

  


~*~*~*~

  


Entering the corridor leading to the executive dining room, Madeline picked up her pace. Now past four a.m., the onslaught of missions had reached a temporary lull, and she could finally accept Paul's invitation to join him for a meal.

At this odd hour of the morning, she expected to find their standard spread of breakfast dishes, as well as copious amounts of coffee and tea. The tea, at least, would be rejuvenating, and she might indulge in a few pieces of fruit if that made Paul happy. In all honesty, however, she wasn't remotely interested in eating. After twenty-six hours of work -- on only two hours of sleep -- she was operating on adrenaline and sheer determination, her mind channeled into a type of tunnel vision where only the most short-term goals were visible. She was almost afraid to relax until the day was completely over, worried that once she did so she would no longer be able to hold down the exhaustion that bubbled beneath the surface of her consciousness, threatening at moments of weakness to erupt and swallow her whole.

But she could work while she ate, and that would keep her sufficiently occupied. The reports from the team in Riga were coming in every fifteen minutes; they couldn't paint their target, and were roaming from location to location in standby mode. If she could divert the team in St. Petersburg -- now about to return to Section an hour ahead of schedule -- into backup, they could cover twice the territory, and might complete the mission before sunrise. Then again, Riga wasn't a priority. If it took them longer to get back, it would actually take some pressure off Processing, where the backup of prisoners to be examined was reaching critical proportions.

Lost in these thoughts, she pulled open the door to the dining room and stepped inside -- and then stopped abruptly, all considerations of work vanishing in her shock. She was tempted to gasp, but unable to find the breath to do so.

The twin computer monitors that usually flanked the head of the table were absent, replaced by an elaborate silver candelabra, its host of flickering candles the room's sole source of illumination. Draped with a heavy white tablecloth, the table bore a formal setting for two: a dazzling array of plates and glasses and utensils, all gleaming with reflected candlelight, multiplying the flames into a galaxy of dancing lights. At the far end of the table stood a semi-circle of warming trays, their metal covers pulled back to reveal a lavish selection of traditional Christmas dishes. It was an image of seasonal abundance that could have come straight from the pages of a glossy magazine advertisement.

Paul rose from his chair and looked at her with an expectant expression, but said nothing. She searched for an appropriate choice of words, finding it surprisingly difficult to verbalize her thoughts. Finally, she just stated the truth.

"It's beautiful," she said, her voice nearly a whisper.

He smiled, then gave an apologetic shrug. "It's not exactly the normal time of day for Christmas dinner, but I think it's the only chance we'll get."

In a daze, she joined him at the table and allowed him to fill her plate with servings of each dish. While she waited for him to finish, she stared into the luminous candlelight. It cast a strange glow against the normally utilitarian walls, warm and yet also otherworldly, as if the two of them were ghosts enacting a spectral ritual, caught forever in a place outside the bounds of time and reality.

They ate in near silence, broken only by the clink of silverware on china or an occasional scrape of a spoon against a serving tray. Speech seemed unnecessary. Too ordinary. Inadequate. Like a thin imitation of a richer, more rewarding form of communication, conducted simply by sharing each other's company.

Eventually, however, the meal was finished, and it was time to return to the world, however reluctantly.

"Well, it looks like we've managed to live through another year." He sat back in his chair, his expression thoughtful.

"Amazingly enough," she replied.

There was a bit more silence, and then he raised his wine glass. "A toast?" he asked, raising his eyebrows invitingly.

"To what?"

He grinned. "To a better year to come."

For a moment, she hesitated, strangely reluctant to join in such a toast, as if wishing for luck might bring its opposite. A tiny, illogical fear flashed, then passed as quickly as it came.

She smiled warmly and lifted her glass. "Cheers," she said, and clinked her glass against his.

To next year. Whatever it might hold.

  


~*~*~*~

  


Walter stared at the near-empty Munitions shelves and shook his head in amazement. Nearly every piece of weaponry Section owned was signed out, something he hadn't seen for many, many years. Section itself was practically deserted - almost every operative was out in the field.

_This is not the best way to spend Christmas Day, even if we are killing the bad guys_, Walter thought wearily. _It's bad karma all round. _

Of course, The Powers That Be didn't agree with his sentiments. Not only was Operations literally skipping through the corridors, his grin growing broader with every returning mission, Madeline looked happier than Walter had seen her in a long time. _Funny what gives folks a sense of purpose_, he mused dryly.

He pulled down the metal security gate that led to Munitions. He'd been on his feet for twelve hours. The next team due back wouldn't arrive for another two hours. It was way past time for a serious coffee break, Walter decided as he checked his watch. He would have loved a beer, but he needed to be on the ball today.

At the thought of alcohol, he slapped himself on the forehead. He'd meant to put a little surprise in his girl's locker while she was out in the field. A bit of Christmas cheer, so to speak. He'd even bought a gigantic silver bow and a hideously kitsch Santa card for the occasion - he couldn't let _those_ go to waste. Lifting the metal gate, Walter hurriedly retrieved a bottle of his cranberry liqueur from its hiding place, made it look pretty, then hastily deposited it in Nikita's equipment locker.

That task done, he was free as a bird for the next two hours. He walked past Comm., on the off chance Birkoff was also ready to take a break. However, judging from the speed with which the kid was typing and the way he was barking out orders to his two little helpers, he wasn't going to be able to leave his workstation until January.

Walter shrugged. The kid would be okay. He headed for the ground access elevator with a spring in his step. Somewhere up there in the real world was an extra strong espresso with his name on it. He keyed in his access code, humming under his breath. Recognising the tune, he smiled to himself. He might not celebrate Christmas personally, but there was no rule that said he couldn't enjoy the occasional rendition of 'Frosty the Snowman'.

"Hey there, Walter." The sound of a weary but definitely feminine voice had him spinning around, an appreciative grin spreading across his face when he saw who had spoken. It was that cute little tech from DRV, the one who'd loved his cranberry liqueur. _Damn, what's her name again? Emily, that's it_, he thought with relief.

"Hey yourself, Em," The doors of the elevator opened, and Walter shot her an expectant look. "You coming up?"

Pursing her lips and blowing out a loud sigh, Emily nodded. "For the rest of the day, thank god. I'm dying for a break. I think my eyeballs have actually dried out," she added laughingly. "I just want to get home." Her smile faded. "Not that there's anything to rush home to, of course."

Walter stood back to let her enter the elevator, discreetly checking out the view. Emily had been in Section for two years, but Walter had only recently noticed that she was a pretty forty-something strawberry-blonde with dark brown eyes, a quirky smile and great legs.

_Be a pity for such a looker to spend what was left of Christmas Day by herself_. As the elevator doors shut behind them, Walter gave her his best grin, suddenly feeling ten years younger. "Feel like a coffee?"

Emily smiled back, her dark brown eyes sparkling. "As long as there's no homemade liqueur involved, it's a date."

  


~*~*~*~

  


As the last of the live missions ended transmission, Birkoff slumped back in his chair, astonished that he still had the energy to sit upright. He must have set a record for the amount of time spent at a terminal without getting up, and he wondered if his legs would even still work.

To his right, Kristy rested her head on her keyboard, looking close to catatonic. To his left, he heard the other tech, Brian, emit a low, pained moan.

"Oh, my God," muttered Kristy, still not lifting her head. "Do you think sleeping right here would cause permanent keyboard imprints on my face?"

"I dunno," said Brian, rising shakily to his feet. "You could call it a fashion statement."

As Birkoff removed his glasses and rubbed his throbbing temples, the two techs slowly extricated themselves from their workstations and staggered off. Sighing, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to drift off.

"Well, Boy Wonder," said a sneering voice by his ear, "the Cavalry's here. You can let me take over now."

Startled, he snapped his eyes open and pulled on his glasses, only to see the visage of Greg Hillinger looking down at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, fighting the urge to grimace in disgust.

"The boss says growing boys like you need your naptime. You've got 48 hours down. But never fear, I'll make sure you aren't missed."

He wanted to argue, or at least to toss back an equivalent insult, but couldn't find the energy to do so. Rising slowly, his legs slightly cramped, he shook his head dismissively. "Save it, Greg. I'm too tired to care about you."

Without looking back to see if Greg was about to retort, he walked off, shuffling in a zombie-like autopilot toward the elevator leading to his quarters.

Forty-eight hours of downtime, to do...what? It was Christmas, he was alone, and he didn't even know how one was supposed to celebrate the holiday in the first place. But he had a feeling it didn't involve playing videogames by himself in an underground room.

Without knowing what he had in mind, he turned sharply and began walking in the opposite direction, heading for the ground access elevator. Where was he going? He didn't know. He'd find out when he got there. But it would involve snow, fresh air -- and people.

Being spontaneous wasn't about trying to impress other people with how "fun" he could be, or with proving anything to anyone. It was about being open to whatever opportunities came his way. And while he might not know any Christmas traditions, maybe he could make his own.

  


~*~*~*~

  


Stretching his legs out in front of him, Michael tilted his head back until it rested against the wall of the mission van. It was just after 9:00 p.m. Christmas Day. They were an hour out of Johannesburg, still two hours from Section. His hands linked loosely on his lap, he closed his eyes. He was exhausted, but a long-ingrained sense of discipline meant he would not sleep while they were still technically in the field. It was his usual habit to mentally sift through the events of the just-completed mission, but tonight he found his thoughts straying, a strange feeling of restlessness stealing over him.

His restlessness had nothing to do with the profile they'd just executed. Despite Michael's personal desire to be elsewhere on this particular day, he couldn't deny that Operations' decision to launch several simultaneous flash missions in the dying moments of Christmas Eve had been a brilliant tactical move. Michael's own team had achieved a success rate of 95%, a satisfying result. They'd lost two abeyance operatives but as that possibility had been factored into Madeline's initial profile, their deaths had had little impact on the final outcome.

Michael closed his eyes, letting the quiet hum of the transport vehicle seep into his thoughts. He'd told Nikita that he would come to her tonight, that they would be together. It was a vow he was no longer certain he could keep. The team's departure from Johannesburg had been delayed by two hours, and by the time he'd finished his inevitable debrief at Section, the day would be over. Nikita would understand, of course, but that didn't lessen his own disappointment.

Because, Christmas Day or not, he wanted her with a passion that burned bone-deep. Michael shifted in his seat as sexual hunger clawed at his gut. His desire for her always seemed sharper after a mission, the need to forget the lives he'd taken - to revel in the sensual amnesia he found in her arms - sometimes winning out over the need for tenderness. He might have thought his feelings selfish if he didn't know that Nikita sought him out after every particularly grueling mission of her own for exactly the same reason.

It was just after 11:30pm when his team arrived at Section. As was his usual practice, Michael waited until every Operative was clear of the transport before he followed. As he walked through Van Access, he found not only his team loitering, but Operations standing in the corridor, his arms folded across his chest.

"Your debriefing has been deferred until fourteen hundred hours tomorrow," Operations announced casually to Michael. "With so many teams returning at the same time, we've had to stagger proceedings slightly." His gaze alighted on each member of Michael's team in turn. "You're all down until then. Good work," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Michael's team scattered eagerly, leaving him alone with Operations. The other man studied him for a moment, then smiled, amusement glittering in his pale blue eyes. "Well, Michael? Surely you don't want to debrief that badly?" he asked when Michael made no move to leave. "Don't you have a home to go to?"

The words hung heavily between them, but if Operations regretted his choice of phrase, he showed no sign of it. Refusing to let himself be drawn back into the past, Michael forced himself to think only of the woman he knew was waiting for him. "Of course," he said coolly. With a brief nod to his superior, he turned on his heel and began to walk in the direction of his office.

"Oh, and Michael?"

He paused, then slowly turned. Operations smiled at him. "Have a merry Christmas, won't you?" Surprisingly, there was no malice in the other man's tone. In fact, he seemed genuinely pleased with the world around him. Michael returned his gaze steadily, then reluctantly let a small smile touch his own lips.

"And you, sir."

  


~*~*~*~

  


Nikita checked the time for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, then flopped back onto the couch. It was just after 11:00 p.m. Christmas Day was nearly over. She'd spent most of it in Berlin, which was certainly something she hadn't been expecting to do. It hadn't seemed right, going out on a mission on Christmas Day. Of course, Operations (and therefore Section) hadn't agreed with her. _No big shock there_, Nikita thought wryly.

So instead of wrapping presents and trying to make eggnog even though she'd forgotten to buy eggs, she'd been dressed up in what she called her 'disco dolly' clothes in order to bring down a particularly nasty drug dealer. They'd had to visit three different raves before they'd run him to ground, and her ears were still ringing. No-one did techno quite like the clubs of Berlin, but when you were hankering for a bit of Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas', it struck a slightly jarring note.

She'd gotten home three hours ago. After a hot bath and some reheated pasta, there was nothing left to do now but wait.

Wait for Michael.

He had been sent to Johannesburg with a team that - for once - hadn't included her. Nikita had a pretty good idea why she'd been reassigned, and she had no doubt it had been Madeline's doing. There had been a gleam of satisfaction beneath the weariness in the other woman's eyes as she'd informed Nikita of her particular assignment.

It would have been nice if Mr. Jones had thought to warn her, Nikita thought with a scowl. He'd certainly bent her ear about every other subject under the sun during their little chat, including his usual reassurances as to her - and Michael's - future in Section One. Would it have killed him to let her in on Section's 'Operation Kris Kringle', as Walter so aptly put it?

Perhaps he hadn't known, she admitted reluctantly. Perhaps there were still some things beyond his control. The thought was more than a little unsettling. Suddenly filled with nervous energy, Nikita sprang off the couch and walked quickly to the stereo. She picked up the CD she'd been about to play last night when a call from Section had interrupted her plans and transported her to another country to play the part of a flirtatious, crack-addled party girl.

As the lilting strains of "O Holy Night" wafted through her apartment, she eyed the meagre assortment of unwrapped presents sitting on her kitchen table. Two computer games for Birkoff, a new silk bandana and a pair of small, silver hoop earrings for Walter. That was it. She had nothing for Michael.

Wandering the stores and market stalls in the course of her browsing, she'd seen so many things she would have loved to buy for him. So many beautiful things that - even now - she didn't feel she had the right to give him. Not now, with Section watching them so closely. Not now, with Centre monitoring her every move. Her feelings for Michael were not for public consumption. Any gift she gave him would be noted, scrutinised and analysed, and she refused to give their watchers any more ammunition than they already had.

She quickly wrapped the presents, having no idea when she'd be able to give them to her friends. Walter and Birkoff were supposed to be down for the next two days. It didn't matter - she could give the gifts as New Year's presents instead.

Trying very hard not to look at her watch, she wandered into the kitchen, opened the door of the refrigerator and peered inside. Perhaps she should have a drink, or something festive to eat. It was a nice thought - too bad she didn't have anything particularly festive in the refrigerator. Once again, the cupboards were bare, and so was her wine rack. In fact, the only thing to drink in the house was the bottle of Walter's cranberry liqueur she'd mysteriously found in her equipment locker when she'd returned from the Berlin mission. It was now sitting on the bench top, wrapped with a big bow and a card covered with kisses.

With a grin, Nikita found her corkscrew and gingerly eased the cork out of the bottle, Walter's many tales of exploding vintages ringing in her ears. Having successfully avoided a sticky disaster, she retrieved a small glass from the overhead cupboard, and poured herself a generous nip. She clinked the glass against the bottle, smiling to herself. "Merry Christmas, Walter."

Glass in hand, she meandered through the living room to stand at the French doors that opened out onto her terrace. It was freezing outside, she knew, but it looked beautiful. Cold, but beautiful. It wasn't snowing, and the sky was clear, the lights of Paris ablaze below. _It looks so peaceful out there_, Nikita thought longingly. Making a snap decision, she put down her drink and grabbed her warmest coat. Slipping her sock-clad feet into sheepskin boots, she pulled on a woolen cap, picked up her drink, and opened the French doors.

The light from inside her apartment spilled out onto the sleet covered tiles, showing her the way. Wondering vaguely if she'd indeed lost the plot, Nikita walked carefully over to the battered table and chairs she hadn't used for weeks, she dropped down into the chair with the best view. She took a large gulp of Walter's liqueur, grimacing slightly as the liquid burned its way down her throat, then sighed as she felt tendrils of warmth spreading through the pit of her stomach.

Her warm clothing and Walter's killer liqueur might be keeping the cold at bay, but nothing could stop the icy finger of dread that trailed down her spine. Tilting her head back, Nikita stared up at the stars. If all went according to plan, the Johannesburg team should have arrived in Section an hour ago. During their very hurried conversation at 2:00 a.m. this morning in the middle of Section, Michael had assured her he would be with her tonight. Surely he would have contacted her if he wasn't coming over. Perhaps something had gone wrong. After all, how long could you go on cheating the odds?

She took another sip of her drink, blinking rapidly. _Don't. Don't do this to yourself. If you cry out here, you'll freeze your eyelashes together_, she told herself sternly. _And that's not a good look._ Putting the now empty glass down on the table, she wrapped her arms around herself and stared up at the stars once more. She was so tired, but she didn't want to go to bed. Not until she heard from Michael.

She sat there for what felt like an eternity, then a sudden sound behind her had her springing out of her chair, her heart pounding. A few seconds later, she was in Michael's arms and he was holding her against him so tightly she thought her ribs might crack. She pulled back, intending to scold him for sneaking up on her. Without speaking, he cradled the back of her head in one gloved hand, tilting her face up to his for a cold kiss, a kiss that quickly grew warmer as his tongue gently parted her lips. Nikita sighed and leaned into his solid warmth, kissing him back fiercely, slipping her hands inside his overcoat to run her hands over the muscled contours of his body, as if to reassure herself that he was here. That he was alive.

Just as her exploring hands discovered that he was still wearing his mission clothes, Michael lifted his head. They were both breathless, as much from the icy wind that had began to blow as from the desire flaring between them. Nikita smoothed a hand over his tousled hair, briefly mourning the absence of the curls she'd loved so much. Not that she was complaining, of course. Michael was the type of man who'd look good even if he shaved his head. Linking her hands behind his neck, she pressed her cheek to his, feeling his cold skin against hers. "I was worried you wouldn't make it."

"I told you I would," he said softly, the words rumbling deep in his chest, his hands skimming down the length of her spine. Nikita buried her smile against his shoulder at his faintly quizzical tone. He told her he would be here, therefore he was. He'd made a promise, so he would keep it. For Michael, it was as simple as that.

He drew back, stroking the side of her face with leather-clad fingertips. "I haven't brought you a gift," he said almost sadly, his eyes searching her face.

Nikita felt her throat tighten, an overwhelming rush of love for him flooding her heart. No matter how much she asked of him, still he strove to give her more. As the first soft drift of snow began to fall, she reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his to pull him closer. Holding his eyes with hers, Nikita put her other hand over his heart, pressing her palm over the steady beat of his life's blood. "Yes, you have," she whispered.

  


The End.


End file.
